When my grandmother dies, I hope they fill her casket with flowers. So that the last time we see her, she is nestled in amongst the delicate feathered petals of mountain bluet haloed by the bright yellow of birdsfoot the length of her soft decaying body is caressed by the long stalks of bottle brush and bog candle so that we can imagine her, splayed out in a warm field on the outskirts of St Johns laughing in the sunlight the weight of such a long life, of mothering so many children, melting away into the warm red soil.
I hope the service is held in a small white church with all the windows thrown open; the clear air and the sunlight tumbling down onto our heads, onto her lightly clasped hands, onto her soft lips...
I hope they read poems for her play light happy songs for her I hope everyone remembers to tell her they love her. I will ask, that they bury her somewhere with a good view of the stars, lay her to rest where the wind blows the smell of the ocean over her, and she can admire the sunrise under the arms of a gentle Alder.
I hope we remember that she has loved so deeply that she has laughed and lost and been so unbearably human all of her life even when she has been quiet even as she has cared for us.
I hope we remember what a resilient woman she is but also how tender. How new she once was, to love and to it’s touch.
And when I am someone’s grandmother I hope they remember that even I, was once somebody’s lover.