You chose cremation, "my ashes to be scattered,
beside a stream, near a weeping willow,"
free as your spirit, carried
by the wind.
The earth, dark and damp. The worms.
These held few attractions. You
to the end.
Later he said no.
He wanted a place to go.
He wanted to be with you.
He carved a box for the ashes,
the outline of his hand chiseled deep
into its side.
We buried it at Mt. Auburn,
in sight of a pond, veiled by
A good compromise, we thought.
Now we place small stones on
your stone--"Ruth Lisa Schechter, Poet"--set
flat in the ground.
I see you standing by a Hawthorne tree you'd love,
more bemused than
angry: "Nu, even in death I can't escape. I couldn't
even have this. He can't let go."
Then I hear
your laughter, resigned,
rolling down toward