A permanent memorial for
the people you love.

Mr. Mercer taught chemistry at Lincoln High for thirty-one years. He kept a battered copy of Sagan's Cosmos on his desk and used to say the periodic table was the best poem ever written.

He coached the science olympiad team to state finals twice. After school he rode his old red Cannondale through the river trails. He brewed his own beer in the garage — never quite got the IPA right, but his porters were excellent.

He loved Karen, their daughter Amelia, and the slow change of seasons.

Susan was a hospice nurse for thirty-four years, mostly nights. She held hands through the hardest hours of more lives than anyone could count.

At home she grew tomatoes nobody could match, and sang second alto in the church choir for as long as we knew her. Her recipes are still taped inside the cabinet door — banana bread, beef stew, the cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning.

She loved Tom, her four grandchildren, the Pirates win or lose, and any dog that wandered into her yard.

Marcus built houses, kitchens, and the kind of furniture you pass down. He apprenticed under his father at sixteen and never wanted to do anything else.

He could measure a room with his eyes, and when he was wrong it was by less than an inch. He coached his daughters' soccer team for nine years — won some, lost a lot, kept showing up.

He liked country music, the Steelers, and a quiet beer on the back porch. He leaves Rachel, Emma, Lily, and a half-built treehouse in the maple.