Death failed to help Mom relax. It only stilled her sharp tongue.

Although she lay in the casket, her hands remained fisted, so unpliable the mortician had admitted defeat.

When I kissed her cold cheek, her painted eyes winced, a trick of light.

I reached up and shut the lid.

Karen Grajales lives in Silver Spring, Maryland, with her husband Diego, and their cats Abracadabra and Dill. She has an MFA in English from Penn State and has published her fiction in Gargoyle Magazine and other places.