I saw the macabre, papier-mâché body lying on the gurney,
whose intellectual mind once enjoyed philosophy and music.
I touched the hands that once turned the pages of many books.
Now, his emaciated shell lay cold and empty.
The funeral director asked me about an open casket,
showing missing teeth, hair and sunken cheeks.
I said no; no one would remember him this way,
drained of love, life, mind and spirit.
I didn’t go to the viewing; my brother wasn't there.
I felt joy. He was now free; he wanted to be.
Parkinson’s Disease made him stiff and useless,
bedridden, hand-fed, and now... dead.