Roz and Morty were my grandparents.
They were the first people I loved who died. I was a child, old enough to understand what had happened and too young to have any idea what to do with it.
What I remember is not the funerals. It is the days around them. The phone ringing constantly. My mother explaining the same details to the same relatives, over and over, when she could barely finish a sentence. Food arriving in waves, then not at all. People who loved them finding out too late and being quietly devastated about it.
None of that was anybody's fault. It is simply what happens when a family has to run a small logistics operation during the worst week of their lives.
Roz & Morty exists because that part has not improved much. The funeral itself is handled with enormous care by people who do it for a living. Everything around the funeral is still phone calls, group texts and a spreadsheet somebody's cousin made.
So this is one web address that holds the details, tells everyone at the same time, and collects the answers that come back. Who is coming. Who is bringing dinner on Thursday. Where to send flowers, or whether the family would rather you gave to a charity instead.
We work two ways. Funeral homes offer it to the families they serve under their own name and their own brand, because that relationship belongs to them and not to us. Families whose funeral home does not offer it can set one up themselves.
The drawing at the top of this page is them.
We are a small company in the United States. If you want to reach a person, hello@rozandmorty.com goes to one.