When I croak, my neighbor said, they’ll know
where I keep my final instructions. I assume
she means arrangements for her disposal, a will—
who gets what: the orange cat, the gentle dog;
real estate, heirlooms, the painting
in the hallway. I wonder if she’s given
thought to where she’ll want to be laid to rest—
a crypt? six feet under? turned into ashes
someone will scatter over water or keep on the mantel
in an urn? I need to start thinking about whether there’s
enough time to put my own affairs in order, need to figure out
what kind of seed I’d like to lay down with in the soil.
Easy enough to miss the signs above the exit ramps branching off
the main highway, though some destinations are closer than imagined.
In response to Via Negativa: Funeral plan.