I wonder, what would it be like to be laid in soft fertile garden soil. Not that kind of laid. That’s a given, wherever, whenever. I mean, the kind I won’t feel. Or will I? The feel of my body giving back to the earth; being given back. Me giving it back, willingly. Being, myself, my last gift to compost, garden, flowers. Maybe a light unworked pine wood thing, for convenience may be okay, but it feels so confining.  No wonder we fear death. A pine wood box, though, rustic, that orange oiled wood, like my favorite table and chairs. Such pretty chairs and table, that I still oil, though wobbly, and have each fallen apart, and been nailed, and glued back together a few times. “Where did you get these?” Everyone exlaims, the first time they see them.  And there was that chest. It came with the bedroom set, squat, coffin shaped.  It reminded me of a pirate chest. I loved it first, then the headboard. No, I loved the headbord first, then the chest. Then the little kitchen table, and chairs were mine, just for the moment in the expo were we had gone for the plesure of beng delighted by fine things. I’d walked away delighted with just that feeling of sitting there at that table with the thick square legs, it’s simple squareness. Then sitting on that bed, between the glorious sunrise of oiled orange pinewood, and the long low chest with the wide rimmed botom, that was the footboard. It was big, but not imposing, it would have been big enough to get into if I were seven, too. And sometimes I wished I was, so I could climb in there and comtemplat, or hide, or feel. I always loved it. Wouldn’t want it buried if I had a box like it. Like that only bigger, and that pretty. One that made home feel like me,  for my body. A chest which the body of some one I love has made sacred to me, or mine makes it sacred for them. Maybe it could be cherished like a Rolex, or Christmas serving dishes. It could even be the opposite of a hope chest, an arc, a nest of what hope has brought. Tokens, of what has been loved, and used up. photos, books, objects.that all comes out to be dusted, and handled with loving hands, when the chest is needed to serve as center piece for my family. Then it’s washed out, dried, and all the things put away inside it. Perhaps containing an additional memory now, its put back in is’s place, in the family room or the study, with the low bookshelf on top, and a vases of fresh or a fruit bastet or a pot placed carefully back on top of it, to be taken out, next season. A box to be delivered to a grave in, like chocolates or fruit to a coffetable, or trays of seedlings to a garden, then taken out of it, and planted directly into the earth. Sounds kinda nice, actually. I wouldn’t want to be protected form prying eyes,  seeped rain or living roots, then. I want to be unprotected, surrendered. Steel boxes, lined satin softness, what is this compared to the earth’s softness? The earth is kind. She loves me. I desire to give myself back to her. It will be different from how I’d imagined. I have imagined laying in my grave before, and darn near went to dig  it myself. Then, it wasn’t about being completely satisfied with life, and clicking the log-out button, at peace with the rocks in the earth, the gravel, and the weight of all that garden soil; knowing I’ll miss seeing the sunflowers I’ll nourish, not yet imagining being them. Maybe by then I will be able to imagine it. That would be another sweetness. I’ll think about that, and add it to the wonder of dying, in my new imagining.

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