Learning To Love You More

ASSIGNMENTS:

REPORTS:


Tell the priest that I'm stone-cold dead. Then rush me to the ash maker for one final scorching on earth. When your tears have dried, and my urn has cooled, spill me onto the beach - you know, our beach? - where I can wander the sands forever. But save a part of me, the best part of me, for my old haunts in the canyon in the desert by the creek. As you shake my last grains from the tin can, know that I'm that holy spot's eternal sentry, hell-bent on deterring city riff-raff with their onslaught of cement and asphalt and noise. But please don't bury me in the muddy, cruddy ground, in between Mrs. Phinizy and the bones of Old Man Grube, where, on Saturday nights, the party kids empty their bladders of minute-mart beer. And where, centuries to come, marauders and space aliens could dig up my corpse to do whatever it is they do with such spoils. So when you tell the priest that I'm stone-cold dead, remember my final burning desire.