In 1992, following the death of a beloved family member, my husband and I decided to purchase a burial plot in the same cemetery in which he was buried. It's a small cemetery, and we knew that space might be getting tight, so we wanted to ensure that we had an 'in' when the time was right.
The picture above is of a circle of sod that I excavated from our plot and replanted in a Corning Ware soup mug. It's sitting next to me as I write this.
I made no changes, except for the addition of the stones. Two of the stones are from Dorset in England and the other two are from Montauk, Long Island. I think they give it a nice Stonehenge-ish look.
I'm very fond my little plot. It, like me, originated in the same town where I have remained for the last 55 years. It feels like a relative. It feels like home.
When I walk through our cemetery, I see the names of people that I knew as a child, families who lived on our street, parents of friends that I worked with. And I know that when it's time for me to get off the bus, I'll be buried under pine trees, next to long-dead Quakers (who have a reputation for being good neighbors), and I'll quietly decompose, unembalmed, encased in a large egg carton (or a wicker basket) in the town where I will have lived and died.
Who needs Heaven? I'm already home.
- Maggie
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