I arrive in front of The Bequeathed, Serene and Sullen House of Funerals. It’s a charming old building, in part brick and with an architectural soundness. I imagine the dead traipsing through the front door on all fours, begging for the mercy of the living not to inter them in god-awful metal caskets; not to adorn them in ridiculously pressed suits and dresses; not to embalm them with the squeamish liquids of preservation since, by the way, the dead would simply rot more slowly; not to paint their faces or fix their damaged heads and lips and cheekbones. The dead, crawling on all fours up into their caskets, are remorseful without any human to ask forgiveness from. I won’t ask Sylvia to crawl into her casket, to play the act of stillness as she drapes her hands over her dead heart and I quietly mourn.
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