Wooden Boxes

He tells me that when he dies
He wants to be buried
To be still in his skin
Remain as whole
Remain as one.

When he asks me if I want to be buried too
I say that I don’t know.
I ask him if it really matters.

I think about myself as cremated.
my body whole one minute,
pieces of ash the next.
Some in a little jar in my sister’s attic,
in the garden of my childhood home,
floating in the foam of my favorite beach.

Maybe my grave will be visited on Christmas
Or the jar of me dusted off for spring cleaning
But the sun will still rise
The sun will still set
The breaths I have taken will be given to
Someone new.

Then I think about myself as buried.
My body just a wooden box,
next to wooden box,
next to wooden box.
An illusion of company that says
I am surrounded
I am loved
I am not lonely anymore.

But I will still be forgotten.
You will still be,
We will all

Whether you are in pieces
Whether you are a whole

You are only remembered by the dead.

The living move on.
The living live.
And none of this shit really matters.


Photo Credit: presmd Flickr via Compfight cc

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