The most significant moment of life is the performance of one’s death. Or is it the reception of one’s death? Trite thoughts, but they seemed profound while sitting at my brother’s memorial service, and-if I am completely honest-prior to that, as well. I remember thinking something about performance and death while having a lump in my shoulder removed a few months ago. My little (at forty-one years and six feet tall) brother Sam was very much alive then: I recall telling Allison (his wife) how the doctors submitted my lump to an ultrasound, rendering my troubling flesh an image to be evaluated and assessed.2