D.S. Stewart

Neither my wife nor I expected an open casket: Aunt Verdy in repose, mascara, mossy lips, a ruffled shroud, cheeks flushed with rouge. My six year old daughter squeezed my hand. “Is she dead?” Penny asked.

“Dead as she’s ever going to be,” I replied. We hurried by the casket, through the receiving line, the relatives and my wife. Penny grabbed for her mother. “Is she really dead?” Penny asked.