"​Death, Drama, and the Peekskill Resurrection"

By the end of October, Depew Park in Peekskill is likely to be all decked out for Halloween.

Death, as it turns out, is not the tidy curtain call we imagine. It’s more like a badly written soap opera—dragging on with plot twists, unresolved subplots, and a cast of characters who suddenly care very deeply about a chipped teacup or a dusty lamp. Especially when the dearly departed forgot to leave behind a script. No will, no instructions, just a house full of “stuff” and a bunch of people squinting at it like it’s a Rorschach test.

Now, this particular house—let’s call it the Scene of the Sentimental Crime—means nothing to me. I didn’t grow up there. I didn’t even summer there. My adopted sister did, so she’s got the emotional receipts. Me? I’m just the distant relative with a front-row seat to the drama, hundreds of miles away, wondering if I’m supposed to care. I mean, I do care. In theory. But in practice, I’d rather be watching the leaves change.


Because death, my friends, is not the end. It’s the beginning of a group text that never dies. It’s the spark that ignites a thousand passive-aggressive conversations about who gets the ceramic owl and whether the couch is “vintage” or just “old.” And while the whole thing could be resolved with a few firm decisions and maybe a bonfire, feelings are fragile. Like antique glassware. Or egos.

Meanwhile, Bear Mountain is putting on its fall fashion show—yellows, oranges, and a bit of moody green. The Hudson’s doing its best impression of a mirror, and Fort Hill is flirting with foliage but hasn’t fully committed. It’s the kind of morning that makes you want to drive north until your cell signal disappears and your problems dissolve into leaf piles.

Poughkeepsie, Beacon, the Catskills—anywhere but here, really. Because here is Peekskill, where the town is small, the gossip is fast, and death is sometimes... premature.

Case in point: I get a call. A relative has died. Allegedly. The news spreads through the complex like someone hit “Reply All” on a rumor. A body bag was seen. A neighbor swears she’s gone. I drop everything—laundry, lunch, existential dread—and go check.

I knock on the window.

She answers.

Alive.

Very much alive. And understandably confused about her sudden demise.

So yes, in Peekskill, you don’t need the Herald to know what’s going on. You just need one neighbor with a vivid imagination and a loud voice. Death rumors, like fall leaves, swirl fast and land wherever they please.

And that, dear reader, is life. Or at least the version we get in this zip code.