Ode to the Mortician’s Good Intentions

If mortuary science were an art
they’d call it that. He’d done the best

he could. Massaged the rigor mortis out
drained the blood, the body fluids

the contents of stomach and bowels.
Inserted the embalming needles

in discrete locations. All to preserve
an appearance closer to the way

we might want to remember
our father. Closer is key.

Carefully the mortician packed
the body’s cavities with cotton wool

so nothing would leak out. Laid
a plastic cap over the eyeballs

before closing their lids
to ensure a natural shape

then sewed his mouth shut
for a relaxed expression. A slight

tilt to the right for his head
on the pillow to provide a familiar view.

My middle sister was blunt:
“That doesn’t look like Dad at all!”

I am not sure which of our fathers
she was looking for.

What moment of time
was the real him to her.