When I die, bury me under a tree. Not a maple or spruce, or even
an eastern red cedar (although it is my favorite). Bury me under
Tachigali versicolor, the suicide tree, given the name for flowering
only once before dying, sacrificing her body as sustenance for her
sapling children. Let me be the one to support her, giving all that
my frail body will have left to offer to ease the burden of her selfless
motherhood. When her time comes, let her wood, one of densest
and hardest of any Central American tree, be fashioned into a kitchen
table, round and tastefully simple, one that gets used, often, for breakfast,
dinner, even for homework. Let it become faded and carved and
mistakenly colored by kids that know happy lives; maybe the legs
will have teeth marks from the dog, maybe more from the copycat kid.
Let the kids’ mother be kind—not nice, kind. Let her be the type to
never dip her words in thick syrup but her touch always be sweet.
Let all those around her know her genuine smile, illuminating the
simple wonders like the sun illuminates the morning dew. Let her
be the type to never have to say I love you because of how she
shows it, but let her say it anyway. Let her kids be comfortable.
Let her be happy. Let me bear witness to this through this tree,
supporting hands and rogue elbows as the mother teaches the kids:
in spite of all, love.
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