It didn't even look like him. I gazed down at the face in the coffin and what I saw was not my father. He had aged gracefully and looked good up until the day he died. This figure lying in the coffin though wasn't him. I felt like I had cried all my tears as I stood there stoic, almost too sad to cry anymore. I knew I had to be strong for my mother so I took one last look and turned around, ready to face the crowd of people that had gathered behind me. I wished that I had said so many things to him, wished that I could have known him better, but it was too late. Now all I had to remember him by was years of a strained relationship, and my last memory would be that face that didn't even look like my father.