I don’t beat around the bush when it comes to death, so I think it appropriate that, when I am ashes, I help something grow.
I’d rather throw you off a cliff said my 15-year-old youngest son.
I’m inordinately proud of his wicked humor – he gets it from his Ma.
As I pointed out, if the wind is blowing in the wrong direction, they’ll end up with Mom fallout clinging to them. The idea of ashen me flying over the sea is poignant and cinematic. The idea of ashen me clogging airways and hanging onto my sons for dear life, not so much.
Better imagery is a fruit tree blossoming profusely, fed by ashen me, from roots to flowering tip.
To my sons I say:
Please make sure its flowers are a pretty, deep pink, or plum, or sun color. White will crush my spirit, and I will haunt you if you do that. My life this time around (and probably every time) has been blindingly pure, bar one or two minor, devilish incidents (Don’t ask. I’m taking those stories with me into my urn). I’d like to look dangerous in death.
The day my tree blooms, I’ll hover above its lush greenness, a pale-faced, willowy mist. If I see color, a bright delight, I’ll float, ethereal, back up to the Light. But…
If I spot petals matching the moon, this pale-face will swoop into your rooms and, regardless of how much exorcism you employ, I’ll hover around, rasping You naughty, naughty boy.
Despite the above, and no matter what, cool as a cucumber, with a warm, non-beating heart, I’ll give you a cold, loving kiss before I depart.
In fact, now that I give it some thought, I think I might like to make regular trips, perhaps a few times a year? Create some drama, and glow spookiness when I hear Oh Ma, why can’t you just be normal? You’re so spesh!
My dears, you called me an angel, and I truly am one. But I’m a bad-ass angel and, woooo-hoo, it’s much more fun. And please, stop telling everybody your place is haunted. It is not. It’s maunted.
Get it? Ma-unted? Haha-heehee, I laugh wickedly.
xxx ❤ Ma TeaShell