One Last, Last Time

The hearse had come to a stop in front of the cemetery's office. We all got out and could see my mother's coffin inside. The funeral director approached from the office as if trotting onto a ball field. He opened the trunk and, without being asked, opened the lid of the coffin. There she lay as before, hands neatly folded in the lap of her light blue suit. The director looked at us expectantly, as if a man behind a deli counter awaiting our approval of the meats he'd just sliced. I nodded. Transaction complete, he proudly closed the lid.