I tried to imagine his cheeks dusted with morticians make-up, his hands folded across his stomach, the way bodies are always laid out for the wake. If I had been there, I would have held my hand just above him, to see if the charge was still there. I would have kissed him on the mouth, and blown a little breath into the tiny spaces where the sutures werent stitched. Maybe I would have slipped a jar of honey in the casket, or sprinkled pollen on the grave after he was lowered into the hole. But I dont know what he looked like at the end, whether his hair still curled up on his shoulders, if he still had a round belly and strong biceps. I dont know if he had hepatitis or AIDS, if his skin was jaundiced, if he was covered in tracks or sores or if his eyes had lost their color. I dont know if he was skinny from sickness. I cant even remember whether his eyeteeth were crooked, those same teeth I licked a hundred times. I cant remember the exact color of his hair and eyes I could compare them to mine, but mine have changed with age. The only things I remember for sure are: his weight as he lay on top of me, lighter than he looked, warm and gentle, and the taste of his mouth, which was like tap water.