Death had no edge then. We crumpled exquisitely in well-tended grass and dandelions and lay still as silverware in a closed drawer. Our stick rifles and willow switch swords strewn about us.
The smelter shift whistle cried over us. Our fathers at work.
Someone’s fuzzy dog licked the fallen general. A car honked from Main Street.
At once, we rose from the dead and ran home for macaroni and cheese.