December 26, 2008
A beautiful casket
Originally published July 26, 2005
People remarked at my mama's funeral about what a lovely casket she had. My brother picked it out and I am certain that he did a good job, because he's good at everything he does.
I didn't care about it one way or the other. That box didn't hold my mama, any more than the box I bought for my father held him. We buried the shells they wore in life, and I don't care how much money was spent or how fine the coffin was. They were dead, and all that remained of them were the memories of how they lived.
I cherish those. I don't give a shit about a box in the ground.
We have a "family plot" at the cemetary, but I never go there to visit. I don't want to be buried there, either. When I finally fold my last hand, I want to be cremated, and I don't care if someone puts my ashes in a cigar box and flushes them down a commode in a Greyhound bus station. It won't make a damn bit of difference to me by then.
I just hope that some people remember me. That's all that really matters.
(Pardon me for being morbid. Henry's funeral is tomorrow and I don't want to go).
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