The End My Friend


When a close friend dies the deathknell takes root inside of you and you not only mourn their passing, the brash slap in the face, but in your sorrow you begin to think of your own end.
So today, 4 months after M flew away, I am contacting Lance, the graveyard man. I need to have him stake out my exact plot so on Saturday, with the help of three strong men, I can place the Infinity bench, the one I made with M (we were concretegirls together!).
I love my spot. I picked it for many reasons. It is on the highest part of the cemetery, up on the edge of the woods. Turn in one direction and you can see all of the way to the Catholic Church that dominates Hallmill Heights. In the spring when the leaves are not yet on the trees, you can see all of the way to the lake, my beloved lake. Whew! I have a plot with a view!
I will be at the front of one of the little pathways so no one can block me with some colossal gravestone. I do want to be easy to find.
And there I will be nestled between two massive oaks. I will be cremated and am leaving instructions to be scattered all sorts of places so I won’t actually have an urn stuck in a concrete box under the ground. Good God I’ve had claustrophobia all of my life and I certainly don’t want eternity one loooong suffocation too.
Some of my ashes will be scattered at the bases of the two trees. Rain will fall and snow will come and I will be absorbed into the tree roots and become part of the trees. I LOVE THAT! When the tree shimmies in the wind I will be dancing and when the wind whistles through the limbs I will be singing my song. Beautiful.
I like this cemetery too because it is one that allows you to decorate the graves anyway you like. The graves have baskets of flowers swinging on shepherd’s hooks and fancy urns and wind chimes and mobiles and special rocks and pictures and right near me is the grave of a little boy 3 years old and he has two big Tonka toys on his grave, another couple have a separate brass plate for their dog Trixie. It is a marvelous place with beautiful ancient crypts and professional sculptures and war dead and a whole section of children who died of smallpox and a more modern baby section for still borns and people who lived past 100 years, couples forever, and townies I have known. It is all on tickle-belly rolling hills, verdant, neatly trimmed with narrow asphalt roadways snaking throughout. And water taps jutting out of the ground here and there so you can take care of the flowers and whatever else you want to plant.
I’m doing this now because I want to doodad mine up. The bench will be the hardscaping with periwinkle that blooms purple stars in the early spring and I do like wind chimes. I have a lot of blue glass in my garden and would like to take rebar and stake out my corners with blue bottles dangling in the wind so I don’t encroach in my enthusiasm for décor.
I don’t know what the actual “stone” with name and dates will be yet. Maybe something I make in the future or perhaps one of those small brass plates that they give to veterans. I rather like those.
So for now, while still sucking oxygen, I will plan for the inevitable end, and I probably won’t think of it again until someone stuck in my heart gives up the ghost.