(no subject)

McNair
Margaret G.            Frank E.
   1916-2006             1918-2002

My mother, three aunts, and one uncle stepped formard to fall on their knees around the hole in the ground. They were gently handling my grandmother's ashes at the end of the sevice. It was a heavy brass box - I'm told that eight pounds of ashes is a lot. They took my grandfather's box out of the hole. It had lain there for a little over three years. Had it really been over three years? The verdigris that tried to hide his name informed my time-sense. They put them face-to-face, then sealed the top and we tossed a little dirt on it. More service, popcorn prayer, then candles and shovelfulls of earth. The capstone will go on later, I think.

It's a stone's throw from my father's grave:

James R. Fox
1945-1987.

It has Maple leaves on it. He liked Fall.
He was also an American, sort of.

It was good, or at least kind, that I realized that I could see death and grieve without feeling angry at someone. Not "I'm going to make sure this doesn't happen again goddamn it," but instead, "God, this really hurts."

Later, after the aunts and uncle were done, the elder cousins (this includes myself) were at my grandmother's, sorting through old belongings. We were giving a new home to masterless possessions. This felt right: full circles; proper scavenging.

(no subject)

I sit in my cubicle, here on the motherworld.
When I die, they will put my body in a box and
dispose of it in the cold ground.
And in all the million ages to come, I will never
breathe or laugh or twitch again.
So won't you run and play with me here among the
teeming mass of humanity?
The universe has spared us this moment.

Anonymous