My friend says with death you have a stone, grass to kneel upon, the raised burnished letters of a name, dates of a life that started and stopped. Not this roaming the earth alive, this body that might intersect your sight anytime, or someone you know reporting a sighting — on the corner of 8th Avenue and Clark there he stood with a brimming bag of groceries and flowers, a smile on his face — no one, nothing appeared to be haunting him.