Coffin

Mind you I grew up in the middle of the American Dream and have long thought that I could have as much as I wanted. Feeling fairly comfortable with that idea I never wanted much and never wanted for much that I did not already have.

For awhile in my twenties, when I was a bit unrooted and moving, I thought I wanted a coffin in my house. My mother had read Jessica Mitford’s The American Way of Death, 1963. The point I took from that rant about the funeral system was that I did not need to buy a coffin from the system. I could have my own pine box and that was perfectly legal. ( I did not need one if I was not going to be buried, but …)

I wanted a coffin like I wanted a teepee. I wanted a coffin to be part of my life furniture to become me and my moves. I wanted to be scraped, scarred, dropped, burned, stained, and used. And later, buried in it … except I didn’t want to be buried.

The coffin, a custom-made box, could easily have been used as a coffee table or a book shelf. I would have carried it with me, spilled my beer on it, and carved my love in it. I might have even packed it with some of that stuff you can’t take with you.

Even later, well into the American Dream, I figured I wanted both ashes and granite. It’s America. You can have it all.

By this time I had lost both my father and brother and I loved knowing where they were.

I have not given up on the ashes, but having lived in the same house for the last 20 years I don’t think I can convince my wife to adopt new furniture.

I did so far as to ask my youngest brother to quote me on a box. Never heard from him. Not too late.