So last Sunday, my neighbor sat down with his morning paper and never got up. They found him hours later, but from his new perspective, it could have been light years. He had been a neighborhood fixture, one of those guys that never stops moving: mowing a lawn, plowing a garden, outside and always visible…until he wasn’t.

This being the small town South, I stopped by the funeral home to pay my respects. What I saw was a dressed up doll, with all the inner light of a storefront mannequin, a parody of the sentience that had lived there…until it didn’t.

While not a new thought, I’m wondering again about all of this, knowing it’s a futile and rhetorical exercise. It’s no surprise we create mythologies around death: to explain, to comfort, to fill negative space. Ironically, most people take the “life” part of this for granted. It’s the cessation of life we struggle with. Yet we know nor no more about the one than the other. We exist as dolls in a dollhouse, with all the understanding that entails.
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