Life burns.
Consumes, invigorates. Paradox.
Death is cold, empty.
My father passed away suddenly two weeks before the Keeper. Hard spring.
The day before my father’s service, I stood at his gravesite. Plywood pieces rough over a clean rectangular hole.
A glance into the grave. The earth — deep, alive and waiting.
Next day, nearing the open casket of my father, I felt the nothingness. Waxen facade drove home the vivid perversity of preservation.
At the cemetery, staging, 21-gun salute, veterans who knew how to deliver death to the bereaved.
My father died at the end. My friend died in the middle.
Life is a fist-sized beating heart. When it is done, so are we.
Live wire, get it while its hot.
Shouldn't...but Do 
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