When I die, you are to burn my body.
Gather the ashes and split them into three.
Leave the bits of bone and teeth that will never turn to dust - the pin that once held my arm together - the steel cap covering the ball of my hip.
Take one third of all that remains and walk with me to the mountains. In the cloth that once covered my head send me skyward with a small balloon. Send me to the clouds. Watch me fly.
Carry the second third and scatter this at the base of a tree that both you and I know. Let me grow again - turn into the leaves that will later drift downward and become tall grasses, a new oak, an ant that becomes an ant that becomes a bee a bird a cow a child.
Place the last of me into a bowl and let me sail on the ocean. I will swim and become part of that from which we all came.
Do not cry but look for me. You will know where your eyes should peer for I will be everywhere
and everything
just as you will be
just as you were
just as we all
are.
