He died on a Tuesday.
Three days later he lays diminished before us in a dark suit, starched handkerchief and Gucci shoes. He would have hated the shoes. Those of us who knew him knew he wouldn’t be caught dead in Gucci shoes--well apparently he would be.
“He looks so peaceful,” they say.
“He’s dead,” I remind them, lest they forget they never watched him live, only watched him die.
She looks appalled, sharp intake of breath, pursed lips, anger, then its gone—and I quickly follow