Not to sound too depressing, but my husband and I have been discussing various life choices and decisions. Among them: What to do with our feet of clay?
What started the conversation was a very expensive and inappropriate life insurance policy someone talked Ken into long before we ever met. What was once a win-win slowly became a lose-lose. We had to ask ourselves why we would want to continue with this or cut our losses and move on.
As kids, we learned that life insurance policies were for when you died. Funerals are expensive. If there are children and mortgages and debt, life insurance would sweep those financial worries away. But we do not have children; it’s just us and the cats. And there are many choices for how you want to dispose of your body after you’re done with it.
I wanted to see this natural burial site and walk the mowed trails through the meadows, stroll over the hills where the pointed firs stood sentinel to the souls planted at their feet. Patches of milkweed cotton sprinkled the path. Graceful grasses and the spent reeds of goldenrod waved in the sun. The fields lacked the jagged edges of tombstones ticking off the dead but in their places grew a stand of apple trees where a Carolina wren trilled in the branches.
I laid down on the cut grass, half in joke and half curious to see what it would feel like to be lying face up in the earth with nothing but sun and sky and trees and grass and birds and probably an occasional deer for company. A Turkey Vulture balanced its way over the blue vault of the sky and peered down….