I want to be buried beneath a willow tree

- To be read when my breath has long since left me, when my body begins to return to the earth, and my soul, in gentle fragments, rides on the backs of beetles and butterflies. -

I believe the soul of a human does not vanish, it disperses. It seeps into the soil, gentle as light through the leaves. Worms carry us. Beetles cradle what remains. Roots drink us in. That is how we become the trees, how our souls wind their way into petals and thorns. That is why, sometimes a tree feels alive, because someone’s soul resides there.

So when I die, let my body rot slowly. Let my soul sink into the soil. Let me be carried by the beetles and ants, the worms and roots, carried until I reach the bark, the leaves, the branches.

Plant me beneath a weeping willow, one old enough to bow low to the ground. Let its roots wrap around my ribcage and cradle me where no one else ever would. When the wind moves through the leaves, it will sound like me breathing again.

This is where you’ll find me. When the world forgets I was ever here, you will not. Just come sit with me under the willow tree. I’ll be waiting.

***

To My Momma: I leave you my books, all of them. Every dog eared corner, every annotated sentence, every underlined line of poetry that reminded me of you. These are the pieces of me that never made it into words out loud, the things I didn’t know how to say but somehow managed to scribble into ink.

Every paperback you ever gave me will return to you with a small part of my heart stitched between the lines, a trail through every version of me you’ve helped raise.

Read them slowly. Read them aloud, even if your voice shakes. Read them in light of me.

And when you miss me most, bring a book to the willow tree. Sit with your back against the bark and read me something lovely. A poem. A passage. A page I never finished. I promise I’ll listen, even if the pages tremble in your hands.

To AshAsh: I leave you my tea-set. You know I hated tea. It was bitter, cloying, something I never could learn to love no matter how many sugar cubes you dropped in it. But you liked it.

So bring the tea set to the willow. Pour yourself a cup of green tea, or chamomile, or whatever you feel like that day. Have a tea party with me. Tell me the latest gossip, the dramas, the dreams, the tiny things you think don’t matter. I’ll be there in the rustle of the leaves, in the creak of the branches, listening without complaint.

I think I finally found the perfect way to enjoy tea; with you talking, and me listening, never once complaining. Maybe, just maybe, after enough visits, you’ll even miss my voice interrupting you.

To Damion: I’m giving you your keyboard back. I kept it safe. Brushed the dust from the keys like I was afraid to press too hard and erase the last thing you played. You never came back for it, and I never asked why.

With it, I have only two requests:

First, please learn “Je te laisserai des mots.” Play it until the notes burn into muscle memory. Play it at my willow tree, over and over again, until even the bark remembers the melody. Let the keys speak everything you refuse to say. Let them speak in your silence.

And second—please forgive me. For every harsh word I threw like knives. For every moment I let my pride win. I never meant to hurt you; if I could rewind time, I’d swallow every cruel thing I ever said.

I love you. No conditions, no pride. That’s the truth I never told you when I had the chance. That’s my final note to you. One for my ears. One for my soul.

To Lulu: I leave you my candles. Bring one when you visit me. Light it beside my grave and let it flicker gently. Then take a single leaf from my willow, just one, and burn it in the flame. That’s when I’ll be listening. When the leaf curls and the smoke rises, that’s me hearing you.

Talk to me like you used to. Tell me about your day, your heartbreaks, your ridiculous arguments with Mom. Rant about the world until you’re breathless, and I will listen. I’ll soak in your voice until the wax runs low and the wind steals me away again.

I also leave you my clothes. Rip them to shreds, if you want. Make a blanket out of them, patchwork me into something new. Wrap yourself in it when it gets chilly outside. Let me comfort you the only way I never could, now that I can no longer pull away.

To Mimi: My music boxes, all of them, are yours. You always knew how much they meant to me. You were the only one I ever let wind them up without asking. Pick one, just one, and bury it at my willow tree.

When your heart aches, when you want to cry or scream or curse me for leaving you—write me a note. Be honest. Be angry. Fold it gently, place it in the box, and turn the key. Let the tune play while the paper cradles your ink.

Let the melody carry your ache through the soil, past the roots down to where I lie waiting. I’ll read every word, I promise. Let your sorrow settle beside me, so you don’t have to carry it alone. Even in silence I’ll hear you.

To Rayray: You get all my notebooks, even the half-filled ones, and every little trinket I ever stuffed into drawers or taped to walls. My chaos is now yours. Use it. Take a notebook and a trinket each time you visit.

Write me something only you would remember. Sketch the one summer afternoon when you felt alone, when no one noticed you. Draw something ridiculous, or beautiful, or both. Let it be messy. Let it be you.

And when you’re done, leave the trinket with me. Tie it to my branches, wedge it in the bark, or bury it in my roots. Decorate me in your chaos.

Let me hold your memories in the same way the earth holds me now. Let me be your graveyard and your guardian. So I’ll never be lonely when I’m alone.

To My Father: You get nothing but this truth: I died with hatred for you burning in my heart.

It didn’t fade with time or soften with understanding, it calcified. Hardened. Fossilized in my marrow. You taught me what fear felt like before I even had words for it, you made love something I thought was impossible.

Nothing you bring me—no flowers, no apologies, no trembling words offered to the dirt, will change what you did. Rip every leaf from my willow tree, and I will grow them back in spite. I will bloom out of spite.

You get nothing from me but this truth: I resent you. I always did. I always will. You don’t get forgiveness. You don’t get closure.

Let that be your inheritance. Let that be all you’re left with.

Let the bark of my tree never soften beneath your hand. Let every bird nesting in my branches scream when you come near. Let the earth refuse to cradle your knees when you beg.

I am not yours to mourn.

***

For whoever finds me:

If you ever stumble across a willow tree with trinkets dangling from its branches, music humming from the soil, or a blanket tucked beneath the roots, sit for a while.

Someone is buried there, someone who once loved and was loved in return. Listen closely, and you might hear the leaves overthinking.