I am the speaker of the dead. Today I spoke for my father, who has left me... left us. It came to me as the oldest son to be the one to sit at the grave for two weeks. Listening to the wind and the sound of his grave as the worms worked their way towards him. Ashs to ashes and dust to dust, worm food now, no mush, no fuss. Sorry Mom, but if there's one thing I've heard as I've sit here these nights, is that somethings never change. The caw of the raven is still loud and sad. The wind lets nother stop it. Trees, leaves. The dead. Everything is moving, except Dad. And that's not really true, either. He's moving away. Every day he's a little smaller. A little lighter. A litte less...him.