Bring Me Home

Written by Gi Buelow

When I die, 
I want to be returned to the Earth. 

But I don’t mean some stuffy, wooden coffin
that’s meant to last forever. 
No, 
I want a coffin that will rot along with me. 
I want it to degrade alongside my body, 
and in our mutual deaths 
I want flowers to bloom and grass to grow. 
I want to be my own little garden. 
I want to be a memory in a fruit tree. 

I want mother nature to hold me, 
caress me 
like she has my entire life. 
I want to be one with her.

I want her to protect me like I have tried to protect her—
even if I have failed—
because my earth is dying. 

Let me go with it. 

I want the dirt to be perpetually stuck in my bones, 
like it was my fingernails. 
The only way to get it out, to carve 
straight to the end of the white 
until there’s nothing left. 

Don’t put me in a place that will keep the butterflies 
from landing on my blooms 
like they’ve landed on my shoulders. 
Don’t put me in a place where birds 
can’t swoop down and pull worms out of my dirt 
like I did when I was younger.

Let my flowers fade in winter, 
just to grow back in spring. 
For even in death, 
I shall inevitably be a terrifying cycle 
of devastating endings, 
and beautiful beginnings.

Because the earth is my home, 
and when I die, 
I want her to be returned to me.