He is very old. Wrinkles like canyons, deep enough to stick my arm up to my elbow. Nose hairs protruding, white like icicles.

I’ve seen him from afar many times over. He is always on the left side of the casket, his right ear best for hearing. Every funeral he mumbles to his sons, they are the eulogy experts. 

Today is not a day for a eulogy. Thankfully, it is only a day for measuring. 

He shuffles, his loafers never leaving the floor. His movements stalled every few steps for his legs to catch up with his hands. 

His hands roaming the length of me. Pausing to slide the measuring tape up to the next hand and so forth. Reaching my head, his breath smells of antiseptic. He holds in a cough, turning to the side to release the forced air. 

I do my best to lay still. Harder than imagined. His cough agitates mine, which I keep pressed deep in my lungs with the twitching of my eye. 

“Ehhh.” He croaks. “Six foot will do. Two across.” He leans over to pat my shoulder, the measuring tape falling over my neck like a noose. “Nice to be thin, isn’t it.”

I want to cough in his face, push him away with my disease like I’ve done with everyone else. Unfortunately, the mortician is not as phased by my dying as the rest of the world. 

“I’ll get you suited up real nice,” he mutters. Licking his dry lips, he stumbles away. “Six and two. Six and two.” Lucky bastard.