We buried my Grandma today. It was a lot harder than I thought it would be. When it was my Grandpa, my moms dad, I didn't hurt like this. But, I didn't know him. I didn't eat Sunday dinner with him every week. I didn't listen to stories of him. No, he was the man that left donuts on the table for me when I stayed all night. I never saw him. Grandma was different. And I cried. I cried so much I thought I couldn't do it anymore. And my daddy held me tight until I let go of him and it was his mom that he lost. But he held me while I cried.
I hated the funeral service. The preacher talked about Jesus more than my Grandma. They sang hymns and yelled "Amen" and raised their hands and pounded on the pews. But no one mentioned the quiet support Grandma offered by just sitting next to you on the swing and patting your leg. No one said she never complained about anything or that she took care of my Grandpa so very well. No one mentioned how great she cooked or how many hours she spent on home-made blankets.
So I made a decision; when I die people should stand up there and talk about how wonderful I was. They should share funny stories and laugh through the tears. At the visitations, happy music should play, music that makes you smile while you cry. And I don't want to be buried. I don't want to take up any more room. No, let them have anything that could save somebody and cremate whats left. You can mix me with some soil and plant a tree. A tree that grows something edible. And then people could only bake sweet, good things from that tree. And even after I'm gone I'll make people happy. That's what should happen.