Death Face

Sometimes, I force myself to recall his picture in death. To remind me he’s not coming back and he really is dead so my head doesn’t keep pretending he’ll just show up. Sometimes, I force myself to think about him in his coffin. Him who didn’t look like him but had his hair. Even in death his hair was amazing. His hands. Oh, his hands, they had started to decay. I made sure to look. And to touch him. And to force myself to face him in death. And sometimes, the memory of this is a weird peace because then I can settle and not hold on to the silly thought that it’s not real.