Rabble Dabble

And wrap my body in a million fabric ribbons

Lay every wildflower in my hair

And press a love note to my lips

Have me not in a church

And with no funeral service

Grieve me not with black attire

But rather with dancing and food and smiles

Make my gravestone a thousand planted seeds

And invite even the invasive weeds

Let any nature take its claim

Over my fragile unmarked grave

Do not lay me in pristine cut dirt

Or within a rotting encased prison

Do not dress me in a suit

Only as if I may awake from sleep later

Bury me not in a graveyard

Surrounded by metal and stone names

Lay me where the wildflowers bloom

i will have to bury my mother some day. but will i even be there? "you cant not speak with your mother forever." but my will is my strength - i deserve better. is that enough to push aside the moments ill miss? i dont want her in them. will she ask for me, on the bedside, or will she accuse me of the same delusions my fathers mother did? will i be the daughter laying by her side as she goes? the one who dealt with her accussing and screaming and stubborness? i dont want her at my college gradutation, my wedding, my childrens birth. does she want me at her bedside? at her death? at her funeral? would knowing change the answer at all?

i hate they prayed above her bedside when she wasn't ready to go. "she realized and got upset." the last prayer - for her? or for you? selfishness is human, but the greed of pain is sickening. i was religious, once - i clasped my hands in the thirteen hours we were at the hospital and asked, "if you truly love your children, take her before she gets worse. please. please." she wasnt ready in mind, but she needed to go. is that greedy of me to ask? i was so tired, her daughter was so tired. every month was an appointment, a battle of brain and delusion. i am angry because where was her sons? her uncles, her brothers, her grandsons? they were never at appointments. never there at her bedside. i am angry she died. i am angry she was in pain, that she suffered. i am angry at myself for being so callous, so tired. i am relieved she is gone. does that make me evil? or does it make me human?

being alive is hard.