They pile us on a field. Try to identify us, contact loved ones.
I think of older sister Nancy.
She must be coming.
She could joke about my love of Polo shirts and say I love you. Call me a man-child, but with a certain gentleness.
Why hasn’t she come? She hates delays.
She used to discard jackets in winter. Take me to Forgetting Sarah Marshall while fighting the flu.
They shuffle us. Musical corpses.
I conjure Nan’s smile, crooked, but wide. Play my nicknames in her cigarette-tinged voice, Nicky, Saint Nick.
Bodies are shuffled again.
I wait, but don’t think.
