The body walked.
«Think!» she said.
The old brain thought.
«Speak!» she said.
The body spoke, bowing to the morticians:
«Much obliged. Thank you.»
«Now,» she said, finally, «cry!»
And she began to cry tears of utter happiness.
And now, any afternoon about four, if you want to visit Aunt Tildy, you just walk around to her antique shop and rap. There's a big, black funeral wreath on the door. Don't mind that! Aunt Tildy left it there; that's how her humor runs. You rap on the door. It's double-barred and triple-locked, and when you rap her voice shrills out at you.
«Is that the man in black?»
And you laugh and say no, no, it's only me, Aunt Tildy.
And she laughs and says, «Come on in, quick!» and she whips the door open and slams it shut behind, so no man in black can ever slip in with you. Then she sets you down and pours your coffee and shows you her latest knitted sweater. She's not as fast as she used to be, and can't see as good, but she gets on.
«And if you're 'specially good,» Aunt Tildy declares, setting her coffee cup to one side, «I'll give you a little treat.»
«What's that?» visitors will ask.
«This,» says Auntie, pleased with her little uniqueness, her little joke.
Then with modest moves of her fingers she will unfasten the white lace at her neck and chest and for a brief moment show what lies beneath.
The long blue scar where the autopsy was neatly sewn together.
«Not bad sewin' for a man,» she allows. «Oh, some more coffee? _There!_»