I will be cremated, instead of buried
in a pine box. Just plain less hassle.
My ashes will lay in a small box,
resting on the mantle of one of my children,
who will sadly go to the funeral home
to pick it up and notice the surprising heaviness
as I did when I picked up my Mother’s,
feel squeamish when running their fingers
through the first time, like sifting shells on a beach.
My children will scatter those ashes
at the places I asked—
the Little League field we won city,
Wrigley Field, the food bank I started,
the lake we fished on, our garden—
as many places as they will.
Staying in that box is one outcome.
The other whether a future
for me, beyond the ashes,
beyond that small, decorated box,
say a resurrection, or a reincarnation
or an absorption by the Oversoul
or something I don’t know about,
something more, something other,
something eternal, an afterlife.
If I am so privileged
to muse on my deathbed
instead of just dropping over
like my parents did,
will it just be a box of ashes
or a paradisiacal future?
Before I lie on that bed,
if I even get the chance,
I figure I better think now.
Originally published on Medusa's Kitchen