Make Me Like a Tree, and Leave Me

Sometimes we change our minds about big life choices: where we live, what career we pursue, who walks beside us. I’ve been pretty consistent so far, especially when it comes to what follows. A friend of mine wants to be donated to a body farm so she can “live again” by being prodded and measured in the hot sun for science. Not me. I want a different kind of life after life. Here’s a reminder of my plan, for anyone who needs or wants to know. When I die, I want to be gently curled into the fetal position and put into one of those biodegradable pods from which a tree of my choice will grow. (I’m thinking weeping willow, for the drama of its wild hair, or maybe something ancient and delicious-smelling like a magnolia.) Or dress me in a mushroom suit that feeds the soil and plant me in the woods. Really, this is a thing. Don’t preserve me or put makeup on me or dye my skin to prompt people’s lies: They did such a nice job, she looks so natural; keep away with the creepy mouth formers and…

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