I recently read that podiatrists practice on cadaver legs, using them to hone their skills. Which reminds me of an ingrown toenail I once had, and how one doctor talked another through its removal. First, an icy-cold aerosol, then a local anesthetic. And then the knife to a foot I could no longer feel. I was impressed by how much blood it had to lose (more than any cadaver could). I was surprised at the ordinary pliers they used, and surprised when the experienced doctor said, Don’t be so gentle. Yank on that thing. I’m not sure if cadaver legs are severed at ankle or shin or knee, or who does the severing, but I know that when I die, something has to happen to my body. They might strip it for parts as I’ve asked them to or use it to study the rate of decay. They could re-pressurize my lungs to give some young anatomist a clear, clean look at my springs and cogs. Maybe they’ll drive me off a cliff or drop me down an elevator shaft to learn what a body can take. Maybe they’ll wrap me in Kevlar to see which bullets from which guns break which ribs. Or maybe, as I’m told they do in Denmark and Sweden, they’ll take my body to a crematorium and let it burn bright. The heat from that burning – which has to go somewhere – they’ll send through ducts that warm offices and shops and the homes of people who never knew my name.
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Stephen Tuttle's writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Threepenny Review, The Southern Review, The Gettysburg Review, Ploughshares, and elsewhere. He teaches creative writing and American literature at Brigham Young University.