Yes, death is the last frontier. In my circles, even friends who talk about sex, politics, and that most forbidden of topics, paychecks, rarely talk about the nitty-gritty of death. That’s something we save for our own private hells or heavens.
This is the opening to MacKinnon’s novel, Tethered.:
I plunge my finger between the folds of the incision, then hook my forefinger deep into her neck. Unlike most of the bloodlines, which offer perfunctory resistance, the carotid artery doesn’t surrender itself willingly. Tethered between the heart and the head, the sinewy tube is often weighted with years of plaque, thickening its resolve to stay. More so now that rigor mortis has settled deep within the old woman.
Probably even those who, because of culture or religion, are comfortable with the notion of death — thinking it a walk into a better place — avoid the actual physical notions of our bodies decay after we take our last breath. What happens to our now soulless bodies? These secrets are reserved for those who work in this secret landscape.