We do not touch our dead anymore. I touched my dying mother. I could not touch my dead mother, though I kissed them both. I turned off that awful pumping machine that kept the air in the mattress that kept her as close to comfort as one can get when one is dying piece-by-piece. The machine gave its halting rhythm to the slap-dash ritual of getting her home before it was too late to get her as home as one can get. I remember turning off the machine, pulling the first wracking sobs, and welcoming that finality for her. The machine is dead. The motor has stopped. There is no more. Now, we cry and drink. We lost the depth from our bones when we tossed death from our homes. We lost the power of the touch of that darkness-tempered acknowledgement of unknowns. We need those worms in our souls or we rot, un-composted.