We were there, your Papa and me. We walked where you were thrown at Anchorage Farm. I needed to see that place just one time, to feel with my hands the earth where the physical stuff of you seeped back into the ground, to see the plants growing on that spot that might be infused with a carbon atom or two derived from your flesh. I imagine golden hairs from your head woven into nests in that field and the nearby trees; beautifying and strengthening those homes, as you did ours.
It gives me comfort to think of those elemental parts of you, Morgan, moving forward, combining in new ways, transforming and nourishing new life in that sacred ground on Anchorage Farm.
I am grateful to the land for cradling you; holding you gently as nature dissolved away your tissues and reclaimed the precious molecules of your flesh that men had destroyed and discarded.
I am grateful that parts of you were accepted and used by other living things. That idea does not erase images of fractured bones; but it does soften the reality somehow.
I am most grateful Morgan, that the land ultimately returned your body to us so that we could participate in the letting go and through that process attempt to create new growth of our own.
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