We buried dad today. To prepare each of us for the burial, his body was on display, or ‘presented for viewing,’ whichever the proper wording is. The small chapel had only a cluster of pews for those that had made it out for the burial. With the service planned for two days later, it was mostly immediate family. Quiet handshakes, hugs, and nods. He was dressed in the only suit I had seen him in since he retired and had given away all of his work clothes. A tropically themed necktie, salmon shirt. Mismatched grey jacket and slacks. His chest held flat, an unmoving mound. I expected it to lift gently, breathe in breathe out, and if I stared hard enough I could see it, the lines in his jacket expanding, but it wasn’t real. His neck, dead, flattened under the weight of his head and the fat of his jaw and jowls spread to his shoulders. He was there physically, a slab of meat – dad minus life and movement, a static body filled with chemicals to appear at rest, in deep slumber, at least for a few hours before the casket was closed and he was lifted into the hearse to be driven to the cemetery. The funeral director had told us, “They’ll do his eyes and mouth so he’ll look asleep.” Under the orange makeup there was the shadow of a violent purple vein, a bruise perhaps, the heart attack maybe. The convulsions of pain breaking blood vessels. His hands crossed at his belly button and the ends of each finger seemed pinched and waxen, yellowing. His hair, which I always saw as pure grey had an autumn brown layer to it, the constant bathing and refrigeration since his death had changed his hair color and given it a healthy bounce and sheen.

A few nights after he passed I dreamt of him. We were in the bedroom I grew up in, my dad telling me I didn’t need to worry about packing up my things, that he would do it for me. My stepmother was there, telling him he was going to be late and not to worry; we’ll take of everything. We hugged and the embrace felt real, the heat from under his arms against mine, the stiff pricks of his beard on my face. I squeezed until it hurt and told him, “I hope you feel this.” I rolled over in bed mid-whimper, my two-year-old son asleep in between my wife and I. My four-year-old daughter says she misses grandpa and wants to know how he died and I explain heart attacks to her, the heart’s vital role in life, and she asks, “Then what?” There is nothing more to it, but there is something to her questions that perhaps I’m missing. I explain the casket and the burial. The headstone that will come with his name on it, date of birth, date of death. I’m tempted to tell her about God and the concept of deities that govern the living world and it makes sense why people turn to religion in times of grief or crisis, those templates for mourning are helpful in moving on. I drink and talk to strangers. Try to work and struggle to focus. Have moments of joy that burn out just as quickly as they arrived. This is what is meant by, “life goes on,” but there is more to it, or less to it, depending on your brain. Life goes on for me, my daughter, the stranger, the neighbor — those of who are still alive. It is hard to think that anything matters when it (life) is so fallible, a constant error in the cosmos puts each of us here and takes us away, all the same.