Looking back in time as a child I had the perfect audience. Imagine the ability to talk to old and young people, even children. I learned that I could share my deepest secrets without being judged, regardless of how controversial the subject might be. Unfortunately, all these conversations took place in the Viewing Room of the funeral home. As I stood in the center of the room, the aroma of flowers and the dimly lit lights gave me a sense of calmness. I turned slowly around, taking my time to savor every moment of quietness. The overwhelmed feeling of being at peace rested in my heart. These are feelings that one should feel among the living, what I was experiencing I knew was not natural but they were real. With each short step to each casket, I finally rested my hand on a middle-aged woman; her hands were cold to the touch, but I felt warmth, I felt peace, peace that I had longed for. I began to share my secrets with her, I knew she could be trusted, unlike mother who would take anything I told her and turn around and viciously use against me. With each day I had a new friend to talk to, a friend that would not hurt me, that listened, and somehow this gave me hope. I could tell them about the dirty old men that would sneak in my bedroom after mother fell asleep. Yes, I would have preferred to sleep in the Viewing Room or the embalming room than in my own bedroom. The funeral home had become very comfortable for me, and the stillness of each corpse relaxed my mind. There was no yelling or fights and most of all no drunks. At the early age often I knew in my heart that this was not normal behavior; However, I rationalized my thoughts at that time, How could it be wrong when it felt so safe? The funeral home became my hiding place, and the dead became my friends.