Just Not Touch

The dead man remembers the warm sheets from the dryer in winter, the velvety softness of the fur behind his dog’s ear, the calluses in the wood floor against the ones on his feet. He remembers when his wife rolled over to him in bed that morning, the sun gold rushing into the room, her eyes all the chaos of the universe, her whispering in her dreamy voice, “would you rather lose sight or sound?” And how he couldn’t answer her, how he ran his fingers through her hair, would have buried himself under it like a blanket, so he could sleep for the rest of time.