Henry died just before our shift in the nursing home.
Polly and I cleaned the cooling flesh, each inch gently washed. There wasn't much to clean. He had been bedridden for months.
They say the first death is hardest. They lie. Far worse is not being there to hold a beloved child to say goodbye. We didn't cry. It was a peaceful task to honor flesh that had lived well.
Years later I'm probably as old as he was then, my former co-workers frail, most likely dead.
I feel the cold approaching. Will someone treat my flesh with due respect?
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