Boy Scouts, coming for the dead

Outside the neighbor’s rhododendron was flapping, the tall trees swaying. We were between fronts. What they call a sun break out here. I remembered the Boy Scouts were coming for the dead Christmas trees but you had to have them curbside by 8. I dragged the tree up the road, still heavy, angled it on the corner, fastened a check to the trunk with a rubber band. Returned home, paused, got back into bed. One of only two days in the week I don’t have to worry about being anywhere, I thought. Got up for coffee, picked out a recipe for later, went back up the road to the lake. Followed the pattern of the tree in the gravel, a long snake. It was still there at the end, crude-looking like that on its side, smaller, somehow. And saw myself in a box in some parlor with the lid open and artificial light, forcing my loved ones to see me like that. No way, never.



Categories: death, poetry, prose, writing

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

6 replies

  1. Cool drawing. I find stories about the boy scouts weirdly triggering. All those years of trying to make it work with my son on the spectrum, and my in-laws beliefs that all good people are first scouts has seriously tainted the org. Plus there’s the gay thing and the Christian thing (in his pack). I tried to give it a go as a den leader. I went home after every meeting feeling icky. Oh, it felt good to get that off my chest.

    Like

  2. I love how you went from the unadorned and dried out tree, right to the funeral parlor. I get this

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I agree. Open caskets smack of self importance. Never ever here too. Happy New Year Bill, lol.

    Liked by 1 person

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