Earlier (which seems like an incongruous word to choose, because I’m referring to late night, late-late night, as in earlier it was late and now it is early, almost dawn as I scribble this, and this is why I’m not a writer because I’d get bogged down in the details no one else cares about), I snuck into St. Mary’s Cemetery. The sneaking wasn’t difficult. Yeah, there’s a formidable wrought-iron gate (hungry for your shorts) blocking motor-vehicle access, but it was flanked by a shrimpy stone fence, about waist high. I’m not as spry as I used to be, but me and my bigger shoulder bag (I splurged for a new one) had no trouble scaling the wall. The cemetery was a big one, though, and the lengthiest part of the evening was the walk to and from your grave. It was cloudy, dark, and chilly with full-on autumn temps; I could see my breath. Can you make smoke rings with cold breath? I tried to (I’m representing within the text that I was avoiding thinking about what I had to do next) and failed; no rings, only ghosts. After about ten minutes I was deep enough into the cemetery that I couldn’t see Brimbal Ave and the giant gas station and convenience mart across from the entrance, and I couldn’t see any neighboring homes. There was only a rolling carpet of grass and stone markers and large oak and fir trees dutifully lining and protecting the outer perimeter. If not for the paved car and walking paths, I could imagine I was anywhere else and anytime else. Maybe even Chestnut Hill Cemetery in Exeter, Rhode Island, more than a century ago. (Ooooh, right? Is this me being truthful or playful and fulfilling wish fulfillment? I mean, this isn’t necessarily a confession of my being Mercy or Mary. I could still be anyone or anything else and I’m just trying to put the cherry on top of the sundae. Or story.) Eventually (er, sorry, I forgot where you were laid to rest, but cut me some slack. It was dark and the place is a fucking unorganized maze, and maybe I enjoyed the walk, wanted to make the pre-part last a little bit longer because when the end happened, that was it; it wasn’t happening again), I found your grave, covered with a fresh lumpen roll of sod. Three bouquets of flowers piled at the head of the grave. One of them was from me. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what to say, so let my actions talk. I unslung my bag and rabbited the camera out of the hat. I crept close and took a picture of your grave, the flowers in center focus. I wasn’t worried about anyone seeing the camera flash or hearing the whir. Careful to not touch the developing film with my thumb (I promise I was careful, but it’s not a guarantee, is it?), I balanced the photo atop a thatch of taller grass strong enough to hold it up. Next out from the bag of tricks (or treats) was a camper’s hand shovel. I removed the flowers and placed them to the side. I expertly (if I do say so myself) pried up the edges of the sod and rolled it up. Now, fuck me, I wasn’t going to dig all the way down to you. Instead, I became permeable, like you described, and I did so quickly. I thinned and fogged out from where I was, so it was like I was there and somewhere else, the multiple places bent and folded over each other so I could be in all the places, all the theres. I filled the gaps between the dirt (as there are gaps between everything) and made more gaps. I expanded and kept expanding until the dirt and earth moved away. If you were watching it might’ve looked like the earth was being vomited up and out, but that’s not how it really happened, and by now I would hope you’ve learned you can’t fully trust your perceptions around me. Years and years of practice, my friend. You would’ve learned and you would’ve been better than me at it, I think. Shit, you were already, um, permeating, without knowing. When we were in my apartment in Providence, that floating dresser bit was all you. Not me. I swear. You were so hyped up or something, the minute you walked in my place, the dresser went right up. I know, right? I don’t know how you couldn’t feel that charge in the air, the splitting and meeting of places and times. But again, I’ve had oodles of practice. Anyway, moving all the grave dirt was a tiring activity, but I would be replenishing soon enough. Next from the bag was my cell phone and the hacksaw. (Or fine, a hacksaw. It wasn’t the same one. The cops kept the other.) I turned on the phone’s flashlight and balanced it at the hole’s edge so it spotlighted your casket. I climbed down into the grave and its choking chemical smell. So gross. The top half of your coffin was already open (I helped choose one that had an upper and lower lid. The one-lidded ones are a giant pain in the ass). I was crying this whole time, Art. I want you to know that. I’m making this sound way easier than it was because I don’t want to linger here any more than I have to. Jesus, your face. Should I tell you what you looked like? I was reminded of one of the earliest chapters of this book when you attended and saw “Kathleen Blanchet” in her coffin, or when you saw me, and went on about her/me being your first dead person and it didn’t seem real, etc. Well, it was real. Me seeing you was real too. So, your waxy, dead face staring up at me is the other bookend of the book. Yet even though I knew better, better than most, it didn’t seem real. With the top of your head haloed by thin, curling vines, you seemed shrunken, almost kid-size. Clean-shaven and all, you were back to being the Art I first met. Oh, by the way, I lost the funerary clothing battle, as your dad had you buried in a suit. I know, I tried. I pushed aside the suit jacket flaps and popped off your shirt buttons, and holy shit, you had on a Hüsker T-shirt underneath the dress shirt, the one I gave to Mr. Stephens’s nephew. Fuck. (I had to stop there for a minute and hold my face.) I said, “Sorry,” and tore the shirt down the middle and exposed your zippered chest. I leaned away from you and sat back up. I needed to take a break and inhale a few breaths filtered by the collar of my shirt. A yellowish-brown fluid pooled under your neck and shoulders, and good on you, Art. Your body was rejecting, pushing out (or creating more gaps between things) the embalming fluid. I had dared hope that would be the case, but I wasn’t sure if you were strong enough (for lack of a better phrase) yet. I wasn’t sure if your heart would be tainted. Fucking cremations and modern industry-standard embalming are why it is now so hard, almost impossible, to make someone like us, to keep us going. I don’t know this for sure, but my theory is if the heart was part of the embalming process, then that was it, there was no coming back from that. But my friend! With you, the coroner removed your tattered, exploded heart, and after the exam he dumped it back into your body but without reattaching it to arteries or anything like that. Why would he? So later, when your body’s veins were pumped with the dead juice, none of it got pumped into your heart. Maybe that’s fucked logic, I don’t know. Based on my experience and many failed experiments, it feels right to me. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s just super fucking hard to make one of us and there’s no rhyme or reason to the why of me, you, or the why of anyone. Okay, the pre-hard part was me reopening your chest, but it wasn’t as difficult (in terms of physical effort and exertion) as I feared. It was a matter of sawing through the sutures and not flesh. Not really. I expected to find your lungs and heart like a heap of campfire firewood, randomly piled, but they weren’t. While not in their exact anatomical spots, they’d already started creeping and snailing back into place. It was kind of cool. I was tempted to wait and watch, see them slug into place. But I couldn’t take my eyes off your heart. Your magnificent heart. It glistened and it swelled with a dark-red, almost purple blood. It was the most beautiful heart I’d ever seen, Art. No lie. Had you been revisiting Eddie? Noshing on randos who came to the cemetery or night-calling at a house close by? (And here we are. We’re at the hardest part. But like I said earlier, I did this for you, Art. You made it clear that you chose not to come back. And I won’t lie to you now, Art, I did this for me too.) I needed both hands and was careful to not squeeze while at the same time pulling. The tug of war was brief, and your body lifted, leaned toward me as I pulled, and I stared at your face the whole time, waiting for your eyelids to flutter open, and they did, but then your body let the heart go with a slick, detached pop. Your body settled back into the coffin, your eyes closed, and I hopped out of the grave. I forgot to mention I’d already set up a ceramic bowl atop a burning pyre of sticks and leaves. I placed the heart inside the bowl and sprayed it with olive oil (I know, aerosol cooking spray isn’t good for anyone, but there was a limit to what I could and wanted to carry in my pack). With a burning twig I ignited the heart. It burned quickly and with a somber light show that I wish I’d recorded with my phone. When your heart was ash, I poured wine (plain water??? Pfft) into the bowl. And I drank. I won’t wax poetic about the taste (unavoidably smoky, but with a perfect layer of sweetness) and my gourmand palate and the rush (swallowing supernovas) or anything like that. No one likes a braggart, but this was the culmination of a lot of work on my part, and your heart was the best one I’ve ever had, certainly the longest one in coming/making. So, I savored. Once finished (I tried to make it last, but it was over too soon, always too soon; ah, the eternal lament), I packed up. I’m embarrassed to say I almost forgot about the Polaroid picture. That would’ve been a disaster. Within the photo was a lovely, the loveliest, blue orb above your grave. The color was full and bold, and the shape was boundaryless and morphing and reaching and nebulous and, well, pulchritudinous, and it welled in me a tsunami of grief and gratitude. I wanted to keep the picture, put it in a pocket so it would always be with me, but I couldn’t. That would be me being too greedy and not honorable. I sent the photo spinning down into the grave. I didn’t watch it leaf its way down, but I assume it nestled where it belonged, inside your emptied chest. Then I left the graveyard and drove back to your house. I sat in the kitchen with a bottle of wine. I reminisced and remembered and toasted you, my friend, then I moseyed (as you say) up to your room to write this.