We dishonor our own deaths. Skin sealed, a painted on face, a body laid inside a box with frilly white ruffles to conceal the rubber gasket that snakes its way around the edge ensuring sterility for as long as possible; delaying decay. It didn’t used to be this way, death was domestic and by extension a woman’s affair. She tended to the physical form the loved one had left behind, often keeping it in the house for days or even months. When the community had made peace with the departure, she would bury or burn or remove the body in whichever manner was custom for her culture and geographic location. Our exact evolution is just a long series of luck or accidents, maybe both. Had we not separated from the branches of the tree of life that make up mold and fungi so much, where would we be now? What would movement look like, and our skeletons? How would we try to hide our insecurities? Would we have better access to the millenniums of knowledge lost to our human brains?