My grandparents are sitting in the front row. This was an awful experience. My dad died in a construction accident. His face was bruised, his tongue swollen and, as I recall, there was some green goo prutruding from his mouth, presumably to slow the rot of his body in the tropical heat of Minatitlan, Vera Cruz, Mexico. It was an open casket and someone lifted me to see into the casket. I was eight years old.
Me at my dad's graveside.
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