One by one, we gathered around the casket like pilgrims surrounding a shrine.

My Grandfather’s features still looked surprisingly vital; nothing at all like the only other corpse I had seen - that of my dad’s ninety-four year old stepfather, who had been skin-and-bone in his later years; even more so in death, with skin like translucent wax smoothed over the jutting bones of his face. There was no horror in seeing Dennis, after the make-up artists had worked their magic to restore a semblance of afternoon napping. And yet he was so still. We too hardly dared to move, to speak, except to agree to each others’ murmers of haven’t-they-done-him-up-well, looks-just-like-he-always-did, can’t-believe-he’s-really-gone…

Later at the service, the stories began to trickle out, the flow of memories-recalled increasing until we were immersed in his tale. I heard the same things from many angles, and my eyes were opened. Dennis had lived a life that was, in fact, better and more interesting than I had suspected. I realised just how much he would be missed.

Twisted, clawed hands till the soil,
clumsy hands that never could adjust to a tiny computer keyboard
monster-hands that toddlers pretend to be afraid of
hands that have fashioned many things;
a career,
a family,
a garden.

She sits between her daughter and grandson
eyes half-closed, encircled by their arms.
Here, for a moment, she could forget his departure
held together by those she made with him.