Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Slowly, one by one, he selected the colors. He then put the dead man in a hollow tree at his head—for he wanted to protect him from the wolves—and laid himself down on the ground and moss. It was the skeleton of his wife in her yet unmoulded shroud. For the next several minutes, he carefully picked up the crayons and applied them to her bones, thinking quietly to himself the while. “She would love this,” he thought, “if she could see herself now.” Our journey flows past us like ice chunks, maybe it is we that are stationary. That would make Death a huge glacier crashing into us while we’re strapped down near the equator. The act of closure will make a strong, sad sound.