I think of death as a conversation, similarly, it starts with a firm handshake. What is said gets carried on long after the goodbyes. Each word, each thought, each barb or banter, each metered exchange, each storied glance. After death I find this the same. We conjure up each moment spent and make it our own–shape it, only true to the above. Decomposing as drying fallen leaves. No complete, no perfect. To receive no answer. Only stirring silence. I guess at the beginning it starts. Somewhere around birth or a handshake. Look into those eyes and begin to speak.
When does dying start?