When my kids were tiny, all they wanted was to hang on me. Probably my mom felt bereft when she came to visit, when after the first thrill of her presence they would turn to me instead—as now I feel bereft when, after the first thrill, my grandchildren turn to their mothers. There is nothing like the idolatry of the child, that bodily adoration, no way you can be close enough. The hand slipped into yours as you cross the street, the body climbing over yours, sprawling and cuddling as you read a story, the bone-breaking hugs. It’s everything.
One day long ago, while my kids and I were visiting, my mom and stepfather drove us to the zoo. Tired, they waited outside while we went to see the animals. When we emerged all sticky with cotton candy and popcorn, they were lying on their sides in the grass, in the dappled sun, softly talking to each other, and I thought, they are so trusting, as they rest against the earth. Already the tumor that killed him had begun to grow on his face. Soon the earth will open and they will slip into their graves.
My love, my love, we too. Free from the chemicals of embalming, I will be a natural woman, you will be a natural man. Death will wrap us in its cloak, filthy with sticks and feathers. But then at last when our flesh is gone to worms, if we are lucky our bones will mingle, and we will become mud, grasses, mycorrhizae and springtails, bluets in spring, the toothed dogwood tree. Our children will know where in the woods we are buried, and maybe our children’s children will plant daffodils on our graves.
