Wash the blood and dirt off the body, stitch closed the fatal wounds, dress him in clothes he lived and didn't die in; salt for protection, fire for purification, gasoline so it burns fast and cotton sheets because that's something no one should have to see.
Fire and blood and nothing left; clink a glass of whiskey in her honor and watch her picture burn.
Metallica isn't quite the right genre for John, far too new for Mary, wouldn't suit Adam at all, Jess's taste was eclectic but for this she'd choose Catholic hymns or Irish laments, too much reliance on the drum set for Jo, and sets Ellen's teeth on edge; it doesn't matter, because they're not the ones left to mourn: ash to ash, dust to dust, fade to black, but the memory remains.