Because Po Could Not Stop for Death...

Earlier as I was writing, F said, "He's dead."

As I walked towards the bowl, F said, "No. He's moving again."

I said, "He keeps doing that. I don't trust it until he's floating."

Later, F said I should remove the ever-still Po from the bottom of the bowl before he starts decaying. "He'll contaminate the water." (A heart as big as the great outdoors, that F) I said I would wait. Po lay motionless on the bottom of the bowl, on a rock, as if posed by some overdramatic photographer. I played "Vissi d'arte" from "Tosca" for him, as if I was some overdramatic gay guy.

After dinner, I walked into the living room and said, "Oh Po! He's floating."

I scooped him out and wrapped him in toilet paper. I still have Tinky-Winky. I'll bury them both tomorrow.

F just said, "Monday we have to buy a new one."