Tiny True Tales

Last Wish

Everyone wants to be remembered, my father says, and he considers how the important ones are: life-sized statues; painted renderings with perfect figures, flawless skin; cities, streets, and buildings bearing surnames.

I want none of that, I say. After all, statues crumble, buildings burn, cities and streets are renamed.

No. When I die, bury me on a mountain. Plant a cherry above my head. Let my body be nourishment. When the tree’s leaves fall, when its branches crack, when its trunk reduces to stubble, let its brokenness sustain life anew.

Memory is fickle; a legacy is what lives on.