One Day I’ll Be Soil
One day I’ll be soil. I find that strangely comforting. It must have something to do with my being a gardener. I like the idea of my bones and flesh decaying, releasing their minerals into the plants all around me. Of course, I don’t like the idea of the worms crawling in and out. That makes me feel queasy, but that’s also part of decay isn’t it? I’m particularly fond of those mushroom suits. You know, the ones that are in bedded with spores. The body is dressed in the suit, placed in the ground and then the spore start growing. Basically, you become a mycelium mass. Just think about that! It would be pretty incredible. You’d be able to connect with the whole underground network of the forest. I’ve never been one for the whole hullabaloo around funeral funerals, especially the embalming process. I do understand why people do it. They want to have the chance to come and say goodbye. My thing is if you didn’t come see the person when they’re alive, why do you need to come see them when they’re dead?
When my mother died, I didn’t have her embalmed although she probably would’ve liked that. She wanted a funeral where her friends gathered and someone read the never-ending poem Thanatopsis. I did what I could to honor her wishes and what I could manage as I was emotionally and physically exhausted. Years before she’d asked my friend Cat to support me when she inevitably died. “And for God sake Julie! Don't cremate me or I’ll come back and haunt you!” I replied “how would that be any different than what you’re doing right now?” I was with her when she took her last breath. I was careful to say “everyone will be OK” and not “I’ll take care of everyone.” I washed her body and dressed her in a clean new nightgown, slipping ice packs under her body and placing one on her stomach. I lit candles and placed a huge bouquet of peonies by her bed before inviting the neighbors and family to come and say goodbye. Hours later the hospice nurse arrived to officially declare her dead and then the funeral home came, picked her up and zipped her in a plastic bag and away she went. Two days later, my cousin’s husband called and asked me when the repast was scheduled for. I’d never heard of repast until I moved to the East coast, and I was pretty sure the last thing I needed after my mother’s death was ham. I told him “y’all didn’t come see Mama when she was alive. I definitely don’t want you looking at her now that she’s dead. But go ahead and have a repast if you want to, but Mama and I ain’t gonna be there.”
Mama was Old School. She’d made her funeral arrangements, choosing the coffin, the site and the headstone, paid for everything in full and even purchased 4 other plots “in case there’s a need”. Mama died on a FRIDAY. On TUESDAY I got a phone call from the cemetery telling me they didn’t have the coffin that Mama wanted in stock. She’s been dead for 4 days and they were just calling me?! I mean, aren’t cemeteries 24/7 businesses?! People die all the dingdong time. (In hindsight, I have to give them grace. This was during Covid) Anyway, I lost my shit since I was so tired. I said “LOOK. Bury her in whatever you’ve got on hand. A cardboard box! Wrap her in a banana for all I care. She needs to get buried asap because this needs to end! If it’s gonna be a week until a backhoe is available to dig a hole, I’ll send my Paraguayan husband and sons over there to do it by hand!” Despite my insistence, the funeral didn’t happen for another week. I made sure that Miss June was “put away nicely”. I had the funeral home dress her in the beautiful fuchsia outfit I’d found in her closet. She wore a wig because she wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see her bald. Her nails were buffed and polished with clear lacquer, not RED, for God’s sake, since she thought that was trashy and whore-ish. The wedding ring she’d given me was on a chain around her neck. She really didn’t even look like herself laying there with her mouth sewn shut, for once unablee to say something snarky or loving to me. Only Valentin and I saw her because she wasn’t embalmed. The Viewing, they call it. The funeral was a simple graveside service with Paraguayan Brady Bunch children and friend Cat in attendance. Cat read poetry and said a few words. Mama was a diabetic so as her coffin was lowered I threw handfuls of Hershey’s chocolate kisses down in there because now she could eat as many as she wanted without harm. “Treasure boxes” filled with her special trinkets and photos were placed on top, and the hole was filled in. Back at the house,while my son made fried green tomatoes, bacon, and scrambled eggs, and I got stoned and drunk. It was a perfect ending to the whole ordeal.
Last week I went to a park here in Scotland called Binning Woods. It had originally been clear cut to build ships for the war and then had since been replanted with lovely trees and undergrowth. Wide paths meander through the land and lead to the sea. One section of the park is dedicated to a memorial grove where people can be buried in natural coffins or shrouds. I rather like that idea and actually it’s one of the most peaceful places I’ve ever been privilege to enter. Years ago I dug my own grave in my backyard in Maryland. It’s legal to bury someone on your own property as long as there’s a death certificate and you let the county know where the person is interred. I potted up irises, lilies, and peonies to be placed on top of me and told the boys I just wanted to be wrapped up in my favorite blankie, tucked in, covered up and then everyone would have a kegger. I joked that if they ever sold the house, they needed to tell the new owner “If you ever look outside and see an old black woman in a straw hat, that’s our mother. She’s just here checking on her garden, her favorite place on earth.” However, I’ve since realized that handling my dead body will be just too much for my boys. I’ll be cremated and sprinkled at a nearly park if I die while I’m traveling and have someone else deal with me if I die back in the states. I rather like the new technology of turning people into human compost. It only takes a couple of months and then afterwards the family can come and collect what’s left of you and use you to plant a tree or something. The gardener in me loves the idea of nourishing the earth. It is truly a beautiful gift that one day I’ll be soil.
