Am I so very odd that I have a poem already at hand to be read at my own funeral?
Is it even more odd that I wrote it myself?
How many people truly know me? After my passing, could they sit together without arguing and say with any amount of certainty, what I would like as readings and music at my funeral. Well, after my cancer was diagnosed I busied myself with choosing music and readings for my funeral. Not because I feared I was nearing the end, on the contrary, because I was glad it wasn’t the end and thankful that I had escaped a worse fate.
In this day and age the person who performs the funeral, at the church or crematorium, usually has no inkling who you where. Gone are the days when the parish priest knew of every family by name and often reputation. How much easier it would be for the family to hand over a folder already prepared with snippets from my life, my choice of music and readings all ready for the big day.
Now that I am dead,
do not look for me at a grave
I am not there, I died.
In that grave is only a shell,
a body I borrowed for my time on earth.
I am not in the next room.
Do not look for me there.
That is someone else’s poem.
If you know me at all ,
you will look for me in the leaves that rustle on the trees,
in the birds singing and soaring,
in the waves that rush upon the shore,
or the water that falls over into a river.
If you look for me in a cemetery
you will not find me there,
and I will know you did not understand me.
If you find me on the breeze at the top of a hill,
in the quiet of the forest,
or the green of the daisy field,
then I will whisper to you.
And I will know you truly knew and loved me.