Too Still.

He lay still.

Very still.

I recognized his face from pictures posted by my friend captioned with endearing words of admiration and respect and sorrow.

This is him.

So still.

More like the wax replicas of life found in museums than a living, breathing human being.

But that was the point. He was no longer living or breathing.

Just still.

I wondered how much the mortician had to do create this frozen image of life.

I was transported back to a small, crowded room, diesel-polished wood floors creaking, people quietly shuffling forward to view the body in the casket or to give respects to the family. His mother wailing in the chairs lined against the wall. My 9 year old self both curious and frightened, what do dead people look like? I stepped forward to the table at the center of the room, hesitant. He had a rose on his chest. I wanted to curl up next to him, for him to hold me in his strong arms like he used to. I was afraid to touch him. I turned quickly away. Memories of the death of my neighbor - an uncle figure in my life - are still vivid.

I hate wakes. I'm glad we only held a memorial service for both my grandparents. My last memories of them are of living, breathing beings. I thought that I wanted a body and a casket and a grave and a stone, instead of a pile of ashes in the garden. But I'm glad I never saw them like that.

So still.

I found myself grieving again for my grandmother, even for Jorge, the jovial neighbor who spoke English to us but refused to translate so that we would learn Spanish better. Losses are revived at the sight of fresh grief. I was again overwhelmed with gratitude for the many who came alongside my family as we watched the days of her life tick by, my vibrant grandmother slowly fading. Tears fall even now.

I can't pretend relate, for the loss of a father must be so much deeper than the losses I have experienced. But I do weep with those who weep.

And so, my friend, who was also shocked by the stillness, the absence of life, I grieve with you.