Grave Goods

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

Over the hill they’re building a pyre, a preference for ceremony, but here we are digging a hole to see what fits: three bones from your strong side and one earring, a body small upon the world. A soul large upon the afterlife. When I die I want to be buried with a coin for Charon, just in case. In fact, bury me with a whole sack of tokens that I can scatter across the shores of Styx – all these lost souls, has no one down here invented the MTA, come on, let’s get these fuckers across. Is there just one guy, one guy still who works the boat? Sweat beads slip from my forehead down my nose toward the earth, marking little pocks in the dirt, and you frown. I’m ruining it. Be serious, you say, and lay me carefully, you say. Hand me my shoes just in case, my notebook just in case, a pen, a chain of distressed silver, an umbrella, a turtle figurine, a copy of the Smith-Waite deck (she deserves the credit, you say). I oblige. We agree to write, to tell each other who got it right. Just in case.

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