Little Shovels from LeDeluge's blog

The ritual was formed by the spontaneity of her demise. It was a ritual of kin. A mere beginning of tradition. The body became ash. The ash fluttered through the air and into the sea. Yet, the journey was not complete. The urn is never exhausted. Small shovels held by infant descendants dug dug dug. The love of the soil could not be extinguished in death. She had only now become.


On that day, I was but a young man. Temporality keen in my mind, I began to lay the last of the soil upon her. I know not if the funerary should continue beyond me. My nephew had no concept of loss or the eternal. His journey is but anew. I simply smiled and said "Good Job" as his little shovel completed the task at hand.


One may be the shovel, the journey, or the ash. One may be all at once. The path to her youth lay both ahead and behind. As I struggled to remember the names of each cousin, I had but one memory. She was a lover of leather. A storyteller. She would lead us through the woods. Our leather animals lay just ahead ... yet always out of sight.


It was an expression of her journey. A path to nowhere and everywhere at once. Along the way, we might speak, run, walk, sit, or deficate. In disallowing us to find any one thing, she would walk us towards everything. The little shovels may be all that one has. All that one should have. I can only hope they giggle as I grow old. The little shovels passing on to infant hands.


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JK
Nov 5 '13
I never knew you were a poet, dude. Neither rhyme nor meter, but poetic nonetheless.

LeDeluge
Nov 5 '13
Thanks. I don't really view it as this way or that. I just like to dig a bit.
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By LeDeluge
Added Nov 5 '13

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