Children are naturally curious about death,
but I wasn’t ready to see my first corpse.
This non-smiling waxworks version
of grandad, statue-still,
still as the tools waiting in his shed.
I was only seven. I remember crying.
I cried so hard my dad had to carry me out
like a noisy toy with no off switch,
although I can’t recall if my tears were
of sadness or fear.
I’ve seen many since. Too many to count.
The latest, my elderly uncle, eaten alive
by Alzheimer’s. His boys said it was good
for him to get away.
When I came home from the wake,
my young son, who’s only ever seen the living
was himself alive with questions…
Was the coffin open?
What did he look like?
Did you touch him?
Were his eyes closed?
Is he in heaven now?
Were you sad?
And if it’s ok to have a favourite…
Was the coffin horizontal
or vertical?