I'm so angry that my last image of you is of your lifeless body filling the satin-lined coffin. Orange makeup painted across your face with folded hands resting atop the three buttons of your first-class suit. The dent across your forehead, deep and jarring. The unforgiving metal bar forever imprinted on your face when you collapsed. I hate that I still imagine you gasping and calling out for help in those last moments. No longer can I hear the timber of your voice. Instead the distant echoes of your whisper float down the concrete hallway in front of windows and out into nothingness. No one heard you. No one saved you. You died alone. I hear my brother's tormented scream. His hands gripped the wooden railing on the back porch as he threw back his head and stared up to the sky. This glass-breaking anguish flooded his veins and escaped his mouth. He challenged God that day, maybe even cursed him as grieving tears rolled down his cheeks. The cracks came the first time yo