While this is likely the first time I’m writing about a pop culture thing… anyway, my better-half was watching an episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians and they were looking at mausoleums. Big, huge, Romanesque-styled with the marble columns and oh I couldn’t shake off the image of the edifice surrounded by a moat… what the hell? Ugh.
Yeah I know, it’s an easy target these far too over-hyped icons of the reality show ilk.
I have no qualms about such things, nor care for the idiocy of how it’s-on-tv-so-it-must-have-value ideal increasingly touted to all those who choose not to think for themselves. It’s a choice thing.
Again, anyway, it got me thinking about burial vs. cremation.
For a long time cremation is my choice. To the displeasure of some. For me, I don’t see the point of some grassy knoll, some allotment of land where my likely aged, broken shell will lie until I am dusk just to far, far outlast any relative who may wish to visit and pay respects.
A little while ago I took a walk in an older part of a cemetery while visiting a dearly departed. These older plots were from the late 1800’s and were in various states of decay with the hillside seemly, and glacially, erasing them. My only thought was, why?
Why do I need be placed in stone or earth or such aforementioned marble? What good will it do me cause I ain’t gonna care… I’ll be dead. Yeah I know, we must speak in quiet tone of reverence when speaking of those who’ve passed on… whatever. We should respect the person’s memory, but to me, the rest is but a shell.
As it is for me, my father, mother and sister lie in a small cemetery in my hometown far away. To make the journey, pilgrimage, expedition to this place of my youth is not of great value to me as how would such a visitation yield any comfort of these losses? How would it lessen the burden of my grief? It simply doesn’t.
Because I carry around with me visceral memories of their face, smile, voice, their teachings, cautionary anecdotes, their own losses, of how I loved them, and frankly some plot of grass isn’t going to change this one iota.
Thus, whether spread to the wind, or placed in a mason jar in a closet is of no significance to me. This, my writing, filmmaking, well, any form of my creativity; as well, how I touched other’s lives, how I made waves in the world is the memories I hope to live on in, not some beautified patch of earth forgotten, overgrown.
© by DC Lessoway