A GRAVE MATTER

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A GRAVE MATTER

My uncle always preferred the thought of cremation. You know, an urn full of fake flowers on a shelf or scattering his ashes over the ocean. A quiet kind of farewell–graceful and dignified without taking up a bunch of space. He didn’t want to be buried, but they didn’t listen. The funeral was really nice, though. There were lots of flowers–daffodils, roses, lilies. My mother had grown them herself. We don’t have much space in the house because of all of Mother’s flowers. Then again, she says they make things look nice.

But my uncle didn’t really like flowers, living ones at least.

They feed off of dead things, my uncle always said. I thought that was mushrooms or that white fungus that grows on old bark. Either way, my parents didn’t listen. They wanted something nice.

If they wanted the snow to go away, things had to be done right. Sometimes you have to go back to the old ways to make Spring come back.

Oh, and there was music, too, at my uncle’s funeral. The kind he used to always listen to. Maybe he can still hear it. The coffin is pretty thick, though.

Still, my uncle didn’t want to be buried.

Before they bury me, I hope they kill me first.

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