No dignity in death

"I went in before your father. It was a good thing because they hadn't cleaned him up yet. I told them, 'Clean him up!' That wasn't right. He was still on the table in the bloody sheets. 'Get them out of here!" I told them. And his mouth. There was blood. 'Clean his mouth!' That wasn't right. Your father shouldn't have to see that. They were wrong. I told them, 'This is wrong.' It was the worst day of my life."

Had I heard these details before? Did I block them them out? I don't know. I thought every detail of that day had been pored over and committed to memory long ago. For years I studied the newspaper article with the large color photograph of the car in the woods with the crushed ceiling and the police report obtained for the civil suit (although I contemplated it, I never requested to see the accident scene photos). How did I miss this? Maybe my uncle felt enough time had passed, that he could finally unburden himself to me what he had gone through that day. I sat at the bar stunned and speechless. All these years later and it was still with him, too. And then he changed the subject, as we all must, and was soon laughing again.