The dreaded question arrives every time I meet someone new.

It’s been in every new conversation without fail.

It comes after the lull in conversation or the slight pause in pleasantries.

“How do you do it? All day, every day?”

It boggles their minds.

My response depends on the day.

On good days, I go the proper route. “There’s dignity in death. It’s the last time someone you love will see you and get to say goodbye. I get to help you look as good as possible.”

On so-so days, I go the legacy route. “Family business. Had to to keep the legacy of death alive.”

On bad days, I just shrug. “Something has to pay the bills.”

They’re all so fascinated with the process, unable to process someone who deals in death.

What’s the worst I’ve seen?

Hoarder found 3 weeks later. Closed casket. (Bugs kept running out the body.)

Oldest?

115. Open casket.

Youngest?

18 weeks. Cremation.

Strangest find?

Lipstick in the brain. (Drove into a tree at 75 mph putting on a fresh coat) Casket definitely closed.

They chat a little longer before their morbid curiosity catches up with them.

It always hits them that there’s a box with their name on it and me — or someone like me — will be the ones to put them there.

We’ll tighten your slack jaws, break your rigored bones, and paint your cold, dry, slowly decomposing skin.

I make it too real — their own mortality.

They thank me and wander off, rushing back to their life. They think it’ll be a long time before they’ll see me again.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, it’s never as long as they think it’ll be.