One day in a writers’ workshop, the leader asked us to write an essay on the epitaph we wanted to appear on our grave stones. This provoked an instant dilemma for only one participant: Me.
I have no intention of being buried in a grave. I also don’t want to tie my offspring to a given place nor have my passing give way to costly trekking rituals should they decide to leave the area, and feel obliged to come back for the dutiful visits that many folks accomplish when loved ones are buried in some faraway place. And, I absolutely have no intention of provoking any guilty feeling about not making such treks, if indeed, they got on with living their lives like I would expect them to do.
Besides, I don’t like cold, dark, cramped and what I envision as being, damp, places. Ugh! I’m an August baby. So bring on the heat.
I will be cremated. Yes, burn baby, burn.
But still, I did want to write this assignment. And, so I did.
The result is captured in my poem, Thar She Blows. It appears, in a slightly different version, in Offshoots 9 which is a collection of selected works from members of the Geneva Writers’ Workshop.