He caressed her smooth, aged skin as if she were alive, then he brushed his hand in her short salt-and-pepper hair, saying, "I will either ketch it up or give her a wig." Then, he pulled the sheet back over her face.

But the look on her face seems to be forever etched in my brain; she has put a strain upon my mind. She is dead; I'm alive, alive in a world full of death, doom and destruction. She had no say in her existence, and she could not prevent her end. Who was she, and what was she like? How long was her journey, and whom did she meet?

Her eyes are forever closed in death, her veins were filled with chemicals to keep her until her burial, and after that? I don't know. And why does she seem to be haunting me, confident me, proud me, free-spirited me, I who love a good laugh? What is she reminding me of, and what was so poignant about the moment when he touched her face, and when I was expecting to see her eyes open, they didn't?

Yes, she is dead, gone forever to another realm. Who will receive her? Who will welcome her? And will she know? Oh death, who are you, and why did you take her? What will you do with her? Oh death, you the inevitable, you the reality of our existence, stealer of life. But death, will you ever be dead?