The line that neatly ties the bow
He was ninety-three
“He lived a good, long life”
Neatly packaged and sealed
But not every long life is good
Nor is every good life a long one
The thread loosens

My brother hated visiting the home
It smelled of death and piss, he said
In the security of my silence
I agreed
He was the brave one, for saying so
How we all felt
If we couldn’t bear the smell
The presence of death
How could it have been
To share every moment with it?
Do those years count
Toward a good, long life?

The ribbon has lost its shape
All that’s left now is the box
No need to pick it up
To examine and know
That it’s empty