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You walk up to this beautifully polished box of wood.

Its a dreaded thing.

Slow and small steps , keeping your head up.

So your tears don’t start just yet.

You reach the casket and look down.

You don’t realized it but you wait.

You stare so intently and you wait.

For a flinch,

For a breathe,

For some part of him to move.

You wait for some part of this to not be real.

Days before this moment you receive that call.

Where you hear the news and start to cry.

But then you forget about the bad for a little,

Because it is not real yet.

You get on the plane,

Those last minute tickets because you have to be there.

You meet some of the family at the airport.

You talk and laugh and try not to discuss the grief that is so evident.

Because at this very moment there is no reminder.

It is still not real.

You go to your home away from home and see the pictures,

Strewed across the multiple surfaces.

Trying to find the perfect ones that represent the true man we are memorializing.

The ones where the love is prominent,

And the life he lived obviously done correctly.

These pictures are memories,

We speak of memories all of the time.

It is not real yet.

We are sitting at the final goodbye,

Friends and family have traveled from everywhere to be here.

We all say our goodbyes,

Watching the flowers and dirt pile around us.

He is finally home.

But this is still not real.

The attendees come back for brunch,

We all sit and discuss the amazing man we laid to rest.

Going around trying to tell as many people

How monumental our memories with him were,

And how special he was to us.

But it is still not real.

It is a week later,

A year later,

Five years,

Ten, Fifteen, Twenty years later.

We are all home.

And we wish we could call,

And tell him everything he’s missed.

It is real.