Some more thoughts.

They say he looks fine. Just like he's sleeping. Eternally. You can't tell the difference, they say. They say.

To me. It's not him. It can't be. In the photographs, his jaw is clenched, his gray hands folded stiff. Brightly colored lilies, sunflowers, roses, wildflowers. Framing unfeeling flesh. Cold flesh. Dead flesh. The contrast is mocking.

But what do I know.