Containers vs Container

A wall full of containers called urns.  They contain the remains of dearly departed in a form of ashes and maybe a few fragments of bones.  For some, they are relics.

Notice on the left corner of the wall, second level, I’ve placed my name to reserve it for my future use. Since my family are all short, this height is perfect for them.

There is one container that I treasure in a form of box, 2 x 3 x 2.  A very small box given to me by a friend.  I don’t think my relics will fit into this.

What I keep in the box are small memories of pilgrimages.  The first thing that went in the box is my left toe nail that I lost during my first pilgrim process following the footsteps of St. Francis of Assisi.

How kind time is.

At Thomas Merton’s Grave

BY SPENCER REECE

We can never be with loss too long.

Behind the warped door that sticks,

the wood thrush calls to the monks,

pausing upon the stone crucifix,

singing: “I am marvelous alone!”

Thrash, thrash goes the hayfield:

rows of marrow and bone undone.

The horizon’s flashing fastens tight,

sealing the blue hills with vermilion.

Moss dyes a squirrel’s skull green.

The cemetery expands its borders—

little milky crosses grow like teeth.

How kind time is, altering space

so nothing stays wrong; and light,

more new light, always arrives.

Image from PBS

Let’s Go Inside

Oh, a cemetery!  I exclaimed to my friend.  Let’s go inside and look for ghost.  

From what I’ve heard, this is a haunted cemetery and there were ghosts sighting.  On a hot day in the middle of the afternoon, it would be fair to assume that ghosts do not show up in broad daylight.  It’s too hot for them to come out.  Besides they are hard to detect when the sun is in full beam. 

My friend ignored me because she hates ghost after having a bad experience when the ghost went charging right into her face.  I thought it was funny, but not for her.  Instead, she told me that the this is the  burial-place of Emily Carr; only if she can remember where it was. 

Off we went, inside the cemetery.

Pushing Daisy

It’s a beautiful old cemetery.  I found one that is adorned with flowers; real living white Shasta daisy garden.  This is what I call pushing the daisies.

Sarah Jane Pearse

And this is the oldest tomb in the cemetery.  I wonder what kind of life this person had and what caused her demise.  Inscribed is Sarah Jane Pearse on the stone; what a beautiful name.  She lived over a hundred years old. 

We went round and round in circles in the cemetery looking for Emily Carr.  I can’t find the tomb, not even a single apparition.  There was a group tour at the cemetery and I really would like to speak to a living soul who knows where the tomb of Emily is.  But my friend is such a kill joy she wants me to keep quiet.  Zip my lips. 

Finally, I am tired from walking and took a rest under the canopy of trees.  In my mind, I spoke to Emily.  “Emily, show me where you are buried.  You hear me?”  As soon as I said that, I saw a white butterfly coming towards me.  What an interesting thing to see a butterfly when there is not even a peep from the birds due to the heat.  

Decorated Tomb

Where did you come from butterfly?  I walked towards where the butterfly came from and I saw two people standing by a tomb from the distance.  Walking towards them without a sound, I could see that the tomb has a few things on it. Curiosity took a hold of me and I want to find out what it was.  When the couple left, I went closer.  Much to my surprise, it’s her.  Emily Carr.

Emily Carr

Emily Carr, thank you for hearing my words and for sending a messenger to show me the way to you, a butterfly.

Dear Mother Earth

It’s a good day to die.

It was a sunny day yesterday and hot by the time it was 1o a.m.  I walked to church in this extreme weather and I thought it’s a good day to die. 

Walking to church takes me 30 minutes but with the heat, it took longer.  I felt so sluggish and the heat slows me down. 

I can’t remember the last time I was at this church.   As I recall, it was a funeral.  Here I am again, going to attend to another funeral. 

Sigh, another dearly departed.  

At my age, I am starting to resign, no, accept is a better word; accept the fact that one by one, in my inner circle, death is just around the corner. 

It’s a good day to die, I vocalized it this time with my family. My family is used to the morbid way I speak. 

Then I struck a conversation about being buried.  This is the first time I am going to an Italian and Filipino funeral.  So far so good, it’s very civilized. 

Niece #2 mentioned that she had been to a Portuguese funeral and there are so much drama. 

Well, there won’t be any drama in my funeral, for sure.  I want a party!  This body will be cremated.  Said I. 

Niece #1’s  face lit up and asked me: Can I keep some ashes and put you beside the astray while I smoke.   We are both smoker and we had so many good conversations over a cup of tea and a smoke. Or can I sprinkle your ashes in my garden since you love gardening, she added. 

Sure why not but you have to ask permission, I said. 

Her Mom interjected in our conversation that it is unacceptable in the Catholic tradition to keep some ashes for memorabilia or spread it around.  It must be buried in the cemetery.  

So much for that brilliant idea. 

In the cemetery, our dearly departed was buried in a Mausoleum.  Her site is on the fourth level. 

When the service was finished, I roamed around checking out the rows and high-rise cemetery to get an idea how the cremated ones are kept. 

This is what I found and how I want it to be when they bury me. 

Of course, the writings will be in English with a couple of additions:  a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.