Returning

Returning

We go to pick out her coffin. How horrible they all are. All these tiny, flimsy pink things. I want her in something substantial, something to keep her safe, to wrap her body, to keep her warm. Her body rotting in a pink coffin is not right to me.

So we pick out a large coffin and it is made of dark wood. I know she would love it, if it were a piece of furniture and not her deathbed. Does she remember what we buried daddy in? She will be above him. They tell us we could fit in another when the time comes. But not now. Now that I have chosen this wood that will not rot.

So just let me climb in with her. Dissolve into her flesh – like we once were. I will slip back into her belly and together we will sleep to the end.

The Wild Angels Poets and Writers Anthology
A Body of Work: Writing with Heart, Soul and Senses
My submissions- by Sandra Lee Schubert © All Right Reserved 2006

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Sandra Lee Schubert © All Rights Reserved, 2006-2014

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