Wheni Di E

When I die, the day will not be like today, on which I began my nineteeth year of remembering, it will be bright and serious and I think I will know it. Because I will never give up 'till it's my time. When I am buried, it will be my ashes, because my hair will be shorn off and made into a wig for a child who hasn't any hair, or maybe two children, since my hair is near my hips, and most probably my insides will be given to those who need them. I want to have my ashes near a willow tree, near the water, or else scattered from a ship's deck that I have been on, going on adventures. When I die the people will wear white, and play the songs I love sitting on the grass, with guitars. My sisters will wear my old clothes, not all of them but maybe just a few that they remember. There will be a sunbeam, and a rainbow, and no speeches, just talk and food, or not. I want the stone to say she lived. No poem uneless it's one that a person I loved wrote. No black limo's or parades or stuffy churches or people I don't know talking about me. And the little children should be allowed to run and make lots of noise. Dude, why am I planning my death? ^*gryn*

~Wind, who just thought of this all today, and it wasn't really sad. Does that mean I'm ready to die?

• are you ready to die? it doesn't sound like it to me from this. and those are beautiful images you wrote. when you're ready to die call me, and i'll fly to wherever you are and join you. happy thoughts, darling,