I trudge-ran 2km then ran two more fairly easily with more lift in my steps. 4km in 30 minutes. Hot humid air around my breathing mouth. My own spit added to the globs from the spittle-bugs. Sweat dripping down my eyebrows, painful ankles. Desperate cottontail dash across my path. Horsefly trying to bite me. You are not at all beautiful after a run.
I wonder if funerals are pleasing to the dead. It is something important, to memorialise someone, but the one being memorialised has no say in it, usually. I suppose there are some people who plan their own services, and I think that is a good idea.
I would like to be buried in a cardboard box with an oak tree planted on top of me. (That is my second-favourite tree. An Erythrena is my best, but they can't live in New England.)
All the people I know and love (not very many in this country) must each bring a poem or a song to sing, and it would be lovely if all these were about trees, but they are free to choose something they like too. The service would take place out in the open, in a meadow, or the woods, even if it is snowing.
Then everyone can retire to a good place, a big tent if it is summer, or a warm house if it is winter, and eat, drink and be merry. Every person there must tell one funny story about me that will make everyone laugh.
Then everyone must go home and have sex, make love, whatever you want to call it, with their wife or husband or lover, because what's a good death without being rounded off with the primal life-urge?
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