The Mortician

By 8:00 a.m. I was back home. The guy from Hilgenfeld Mortuary arrived at the hospice around 7:30 a.m. or so to pick up the body.
Rob stood at attention, a private salute to his lost father.
And he gently reached down and swept a lock of hair from Bob's forehead as the body bag was zipped over his face.
Rob, Matt, and I emptied the hospice room. We handed stuff over the patio wall instead of carrying it through the hallways. Rob drove my van around to the back of the building.
We loaded the framed picture collage with Bob healthy and the rest of us laughing at parties at Christmas at birthdays at Easter at the pool;
the patio chairs I'd brought;
my suitcase with my clothes in it;
my toothbrush;
the vase with the sunflower in it;
the family portrait;

We left the diapers.
We left the sween cream.
We left the wipes.
We left his comb.

Later that day, Rob, Matt, and I met at Hilgenfeld Mortuary to make the "arrangements."
We got the giggles.
The mortician was taken aback by our behavior. He even scolded us.
"I'm not accustomed to people laughing at a time like this."

We didn't care. The sales pitch for the "merchandise" set us off.
Sleep deprivation, release of tension, gallows humor - it felt good to laugh.

We all knew had Bob been there with us, he'd have been laughing too.