afterlife

When they lay me inside a tree, inside the dirt, I will breathe in new ways. Memory, old pain, and a thousand hours of walking pavements, will exhale from my body. And I will grow weeds.




I will grow dandelions that could cure you, if only you understood. And nameless plants with tiny, almost-purple flowers. And unexpected ferns. I will grow things that do not belong in a garden, unless it is a sanctuary rather than a display of prettiness and the gardener's skill; the plants from my body belong instead on some untrod hill, amongst trees, where they can be beautiful for themselves.




A hill overlooking the sea, probably, for it seems I can never escape the sea, despite how I long to.



Inspired by this interview with Christina Kloess. What would grow from your body?


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