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 that from his Ma.
As I pointed out, they might end up with Mom fallout clinging to them if the wind is blowing in the wrong direction. The idea of ashen me flying over the sea is poignant and cinematic; the possibility of ashen me clogging airways and hanging onto my sons for dear life, not so much.
Better imagery: a blossoms-popping-open-National-Geographic fruit tree.
To my sons I say:
Please make sure its flowers are a pretty pink or plum or sun color. White will be deadly to 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).
The day my tree blooms I’ll hover above its lush greenness – a pale-faced, willowy mist. If I see color, a pastel 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 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 wooooo-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? Hahaha-heeheehee, I laugh wickedly. 😀
xxx Ma TeaShell