Earth to Earth - Linda Blachman

[Larry Robinson]

Earth to Earth  

My sister’s grandson was bored
at his first funeral. An urn with ashes. 			 
A box in a marble wall. Antiseptic 
and ecological. Maybe not that ecological.
Read somewhere that burning bodies
requires fossil fuels, releases			
noxious chemicals into the air.

Give me an old-fashioned 
Jewish funeral and burial.
The ripping of a black ribbon   
over the heart, the body in a  
simple box, waiting. Shovels 
in hand, muscles straining, clods of   
earth dropping down, hitting 			
wood with a thud, tears
and maybe a stray flower 
following.

I’ll be laid to rest at the green 	
cemetery. Fernwood. Had the choice
of a pine box, a basket or a shroud. 
Whatever is the breathing “I” in me 
will be gone. I know I won’t be in that 
body any more, but my body still says
“No!” to the possibility of bugs 
and worms crawling over it. 
At least a pinebox is closed. 

I also chose a plot next to a 
lovely woman from the synagogue
a rabbi and a doctor.
Kind of reassuring to have 
my bases covered, just in case.  

Really wanted to be buried under 
a tree, but the Orthodox 
got the better section. I’m not sure
how that happened but I don’t like it.
I’m not going to start keeping Kosher
or sit on the other side of a barrier
at this late date. At least it’s not   
behind the men any more but 
it’s still not equal, so that’s that.   	

My plot is down a steep incline
and I almost swooned descending
to check it out but I suppose I won’t
have to worry about that later. 
Most of my peers will be gone by then
and my family won’t be stopping 
by often. I’ll have to tell my daughter
to wear sensible shoes.

Papers in hand with my new address, 
Plot # 51, I felt great that I could finally say 
I’m a proud homeowner in Marin County 
until I learned that, no, I don’t own the plot,
it’s only on lease to me. One more lesson 
in humility and gratitude. 

I know I’ll become atoms and energy,
already getting shorter each year, 
three inches gone and bones crumbling
downwards toward the Mother. She’ll
welcome me although she can’t 
promise a soft landing, whispers to me
through cracked lips, Let’s hope it rains,
God knows California needs some
good downpours. When no one was looking   
I lay my deeply creased cheek down on her
scarred surface and felt right at home. 


	– Linda Blachman

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