Suburban discontent

I lie back, watch discussion pass over my head like the shooting stars I used to wish upon. Second mortgages. Top of the line grills. Sophisticated treatments for much maligned swimming pools. People retreating into themselves and each other. I smile, nod. I say "when I die don't put me in a coffin"

Eyes roll and I see faces with "here we go" expressions. And I say "wait"
I say "please" I say "because you're the only ones who may listen"

I say "what is it a coffin but a box meant to keep out what I want brought in? So much must be chopped down to make a vacant lot designed to house my vacant body, it marked as just more human property, not to be trespassed or triffled on? A grave an unnecessary space mandated to remain for ages, what of all that would have been able to use the place to grow and populate?

My consciousness at death but potential goes on unwaning. This is my gift" I say, "for life which was greedily taken can be freely given back to nature which even now sustains me. I do not fear oblivion. I fear that those who remember me would attempt to make a preservation of me rather than surrender me to entropy.

For my soon forgotten name would christen my grave for an unforgivable number of generations. I do not need them wonder who I was, when your descendents may rest in the shade provided by a tree my essence created and gain enlightenment.

Water questing-roots will interlace with my finger bones in an everlasting embrace. An apple will drop from the canopy, words will whisper in the wind and they will be  'take this, for it is my body and has been given up for you'

So when you try to bury me, chemical laden to stop my degradation, stagnating in an earthen liminal scpace you do not provide eternity you nullify transubstantiation.

And more, this is not just one thing becoming another. My tree will fall and not be dictated by those around to hear the sound, but by the new life that is made possible by its sunder. Creatures will grow from light where once was shadow. A dizzying new ecosystem, not machine-hewn stone, will mark that spot as consecrated, hallowed.

 And there will be neglected saplings that finally have a chance to stretch away from the horizon
So how dare that cross-bearing man deny this cycle of reincarnation and call it 'rising'

"The Earth" I say "has given me so much. It has given me life and love and you. So please, if only for me, do not deprive it of its due"

I feel a finger flicking my forehead like it can channel-change my thoughts. A voice, unknowing and warm says
"What else is on?"
I say nothing.