All the body parts are taken to a morgue. I am placed on a wooden shelf next to another jar with something fleshy that I can't make out. I wonder where exactly we are. I remember the pilot talking about the coastline and the altitude of the plane. My memories are fading, useless snatches coming in unconnected threads.
Death appears to be a gradual tuning out, a slipping beyond.
It sounds so final, unlike a passing, which sounds more like a journey, taken for some unspecified time. I can feel myself passing away. But not yet. There is still my mother. The jar is lifted from the shelf and a white-coated woman carries me into a small room.