You could die in your living room or in a place like this, so full of life that your death cant render it tragedy. Someone would say what a great way to go: Crumpling the grass, with your body, like bedsheets, in time, inclining to cover you. You could leave the earth as you meet the earth as losing life could grow life. We dont walk through this scene simply because it is a great way to go, but because we have somewhere to end up at. A family tree is here in these overgrowths. At my moms side, there, erect, her sisters, brothers, their daughters and sons are. Before us, the rest of our relations are represented in a grid. Etched into a stone: the only way they could be present. People kid about the way the bodies must be buried-- could they be side-by-side or stacked? We stand contiguously, with our open graves in an open ending. But if I fell right this instance, I would collect my reservations and call it beautiful--the only thing I could come up with on the spot. In a beautiful place like this: I fall on my knees, then lean forwards; place some dying blossoms on the plaque; my weight etches a shallow print of legs in the topsoil, and is cradled by the garden that grows up the feet of these monoliths, like a natural progression, like everything is the top of the ground beneath it: like that is the only way they could be present.
Posted on: Tue, 15 Oct 2013 05:56:28 +0000
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