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The Pain and Heartbreak of Invisible People

Today I offer you a poem and a story, and sadly neither are intended to make you smile. There are no pictures and there’s also a good chance that it will probably make you somewhat uncomfortable.   

However, uncomfortable is what leads to change. Uncomfortable is what makes us say “no more”.     I keep hoping that more people every day will become more and more uncomfortable, so they’ll look outside their comfort zone and see the need around them, and feel compelled to affect change.

Hello, my name is Anna and I’m six years old
I live with my mama and papa
They can’t always afford to feed me as often as they would like
They can’t afford to buy me clothing very often
We don’t have a house, but we have shelter sometimes
I used to have a brother but he died
I love my parents, and I know that love me too
They try so very hard
We are part of your society
a part you either don’t see or won’t see
I probably won’t be here very much longer
I just wanted to say hello

Hello my name is Anna and I’m ten years old
My daddy died, Mama says someone shot him
Mama has lots of friends, she says that’s how she pays the rent
I used to have a brother but he died too,
Mama said we couldn’t feed him anymore
I worry about my Mama she puts needles in herself
But she says” don’t worry baby God is coming for us all”
I know that I’m supposed to believe in God
and I guess I do
I just haven’t seen him in my neighborhood
Mama’s calling for me now I have to go make her lunch
anyway I just wanted to say hello

Go Ask Alice
This was published in 1971 and still brings light to the dark subject of drugs and homelessness. This book can be read here online or it can be downloaded

Hello, my name’s Anna and I’m fifteen.
I know what my mama did to raise me,
I understand now because I have a daughter now
and I call her Ella… I’d do anything to make sure that she has enough
food and clothes, but things keep getting in the way.
it’s so expensive, and they want so much from me.
I love my little girl but sometimes when she cries when she’s hungry
I just want to get away…
so I do…

Hello, My name is Ella or so I’m told,
they said that my Mama named me after my grandma,
but I never knew her
They tell they she loved me very much
but I never knew
I should have had a daddy
but they never knew
They are closing the home tomorrow
because they have no money
I ask where will I go
but nobody knows

Hello, My name is Ella and I’m 12 years old,
for as long as I can remember
I’ve been sold from pimp to pimp                                                                          for cigarettes or pool wagers or on  a whim,
I am chattel, I am worthless.
I don’t even care enough to despair

DsHello, My name is Ella
I’m a corpse under a bridge,
I’ve been here for weeks
and no one seemed to notice,
I wonder why that is
~ Anonymous

Rape is about violence, not sex.  If a person hits you with a spade, you wouldn’t call it gardening would you?

I lived with a woman named Susan in the homeless shelter I stayed in, along with her husband Dave and their daughter, April (she was 8 maybe?).  Dave had a massive stroke that left him confined to a wheelchair, having to be fed and changed, and unintelligible speak to anyone other than his wife or daughter.  In fact, everyone originally thought he was her father because he had aged so much from all that he’d been through medically.  Sadly she didn’t know enough to apply for social security.

They were a single income household and Susan stopped working when she found out that she was pregnant. They lost their home, most of their possessions, their cars.  And now Dave was an invalid who couldn’t take care of himself.    With limited skills and experience, the only place that would hire her was McDonald’s.  Susan would take care of Dave as soon as they woke up, along with getting April off to school.  Susan would leave to go to work, then when April came “home” after school, then she’d be her dad’s caretaker until Susan got “home” around midnight, walking both ways because the car they had been living in had been repossessed.

On the way “home” one night Susan was stopped by three rough looking men, one of which had been kicked out of the shelter previously for being an asshole, and he blamed her.  She had asked him to watch his mouth around her daughter and he wouldn’t and got nasty with her, so she told the guard and asked that he try to handle it.

Then he got into it with the guard and started an altercation, needless to say, he was out for good. Not necessarily a good thing in Colorado in the winter(oh well); he brought it on himself but of course he blamed everyone but himself.   So here she was, alone, walking “home” and suddenly surrounded by these three street thugs.  The one with the vendetta and two of his buddies.  They decided to drive train on her because gang-rape is a worthy punishment for asking the guard to make you stop talking in 4-letter words around someone’s young daughter.

I couldn’t sleep at night back then either so I was wide awake as always when she came in later than usual.  Her hair messed up, her uniform was a mess, dirty, ripped in places with some blood on it, and a face that was stained with tears.  We all knew something was wrong, and it wasn’t hard to tell what that something was.

We tried suggesting to her to go to the hospital to get checked out, but she refused, almost in a panic attack, saying that she couldn’t go because if they admitted her, then that would leave her 8-year-old daughter there to take care of her father, and not only was that not something she wanted to do to April.  The big problem was that because since neither April or David was self-sufficient, not only would they not be allowed to stay at the shelter, but children’s services & adult protective services could be called to take both of them away.

A couple of us asked her if they could help her get cleaned up, We all offered to help her family in her absence, I even told her that I’d drive her so that everyone wouldn’t be nosy if an ambulance showed up, but she just said,  “no, I just need to be with my family right now”. And just as Susan said, she climbed into her bunk between her daughter and her husband and cried all night.  The next morning she told David what happened, we could see it in his face when she told him. He sobbed for 3 days straight

Her pants were ripped pretty badly when she was attacked, so we all chipped in to buy her a new pair of work pants so she could still work.  By dinner time the next day, the entire shelter knew what happened. After that, the guards let a couple of the guys out each night so they could walk her home.

Lockdown was at 10, lights out at 10:30. And if you didn’t have a pre-authorized pass signed by your employer,  it didn’t matter if you had Jesus himself with you for backup, and you *still* weren’t getting in.  The guards couldn’t leave while they were on duty but would let the (rougher) guys go out every night passed lockdown so they could go get her and bring her back. And the guys all took turns, this way if anyone was watching they’d know that there were more than two guys backing her up.

Sunday night was something that well all looked forward to.  That’s when we all went to Church in Manitou Springs, where they served dinner… real food, not the crap we were used to.  You had to be there on time because they only had so many portions.  The soup kitchen in town had those big giant pots, and if they had a significant amount left, it went into tomorrow’s meal, but not at the church in Manitou Springs.  It was good food, sometimes it was the only good thing that happened to us for the whole week.

I still had my car,  a small Chevette knockoff.  I would earn gas money from people to take them places. On Sunday nights it was great because I was always guaranteed to get three guys in the back seat, with me & my boyfriend up front with me. They all gave me $5 each and gas was still 99¢ a gallon back then so it was a great income for someone who couldn’t find a job.  I also did it for the ones who went to the plasma center during the week because they were not up to walking back.   I lost my job because they found out that I was living in the shelter so this was the only money I was making, by being a taxi to my fellow “shelter rats” (as we were called).

Anyway, we all were sitting down with our plates…  it was loud, filled with happy talk because of a real meal and a change of scenery, dishes, silverware, and glasses all clanking and banging. The pastor would have everyone bow their heads and he’d say grace then we could eat. Well he said grace, we dug in and within a few minutes, you could hear a pin drop.

“…and then the angels of justice and mercy came for Susan.”

It was about a month after Susan was attacked and the three guys that raped her made the mistake of coming into the Church basement for dinner. The two guys behind him knew their world was going to change when they turned around to leave and there were two guys barring the door. The leader, I don’t remember his name from 31 years ago, but I do remember his face. He was the blackest person I’d ever seen. Skin the color of espresso, the only thing that gave him away in the dark was his teeth and his eyes.  He was wearing a black leather jacket and black pants which gave away how he got around at night (like a ninja) and on his shoulder a heavy chain with a metal padlock on it.

The pastor came out and asked what was going on and one of the guys told him. He looked at those three, grossly outnumbered and said, “I’m sorry we’re full and there’s no more to eat” (which was true) but elicited a very forceful no.  The pastor told him “Well then, I’m sure the boys will you help you find the way to your car.”  The guy spoke up telling the Pastor that he didn’t have a car. So the pastor glossed over his response and said “God doesn’t care if you have a car or not, he cares about *other* things like how you live, how you treat people, and so on.  Boys, If you wouldn’t mind, could you please take these late-comers out to their car, I have to go check on dessert.”

They hadn’t even made it out of the basement when everything jumped off. He rolled his shoulder to drop the chain to put it in his hand but it got snatched away from him while his face stopped someone’s fist from running away. The guy who grabbed the chain from him swung it…

I was “caught staring with the dumb look” (as we used to call it.)  I’d never seen a cheekbone before, or any bone for that matter (other than watching Deliverance, but it was not the same.)  I was just completely stunned at just how white it was, but that was of course in contrast with the espresso colored skin and the bright red blood that was now going everywhere. The next blast was a right hook that cold-cocked him.  It was at that point when he was dragged out into the parking lot and his friends (who were still conscious at least) took off.  When thug #1 came to a couple of minutes later, he was freaking out about how he got there and the amount of blood ( a bit dazed don’t you know) and he got his ass kicked. He suddenly came to his senses, stood up and then took off as quickly as he could like his friends did.

Our guys came back in just as the pastor came out, who took one look at them and said “boys, it was very nice of you to help those gentlemen with their car trouble, but you’ve all gotten so dirty, you need to all come in the kitchen and wash up all of you, you need to be presentable for dinner.” (read: Just in case the police showed up.)

I was there for another couple of months but that guy was never seen around town ever again to my brief knowledge.

I really do hope that Susan and David, along with their daughter April were able to move on and move up. I hope they were given access to the services they needed to survive and with any luck, they were able to get help for all that they had endured. 

So, why did I tell you this long-winded story you ask? 

The reason for this is to use light to see those who are in the shadows, to see those who are normally invisible to the population as a whole.  The homeless are a large part of our country’s landscape as well abroad.  We see the pictures of the homeless during the Great Depression.  People standing in lines a block long.  People living in tents We don’t see that, just the occasional person standing at an intersection with a cardboard sign, we don’t see them.  So if there is such a homeless problem, where are they?  Why don’t they look the same?  Easy, back then are programs now like SNAP, Welfare, and WIC that didn’t exist back then.  There were no homeless shelters, just people living in Hoovervilles.  No food pantries, no soup kitchens per say, there were soup lines (the  bonus there was you could fill a soup pot up so that you could feed your children, and bread lines.  Can you imagine?

The problem is that these people along with myself at the time and even now as a disabled person, is that we are/were invisible. I swear, I would love 10 acres of land, cover it with tiny houses, solar panels on every roof, mandatory recycling, a place in the middle with a laundry room and hot showers (just in case you’re too tall or just fluffy like me), wifi for the community, since nowadays places will only take applications online. A community center with a couple of computers for kids to do homework, gather up books for a take a book/leave a book library, the same goes for DVD’s and we would have weekend gatherings so you could get to know your neighbors and further know that you’re not alone, you’re not the only person that this has happened to and you just have to get up, dust yourself off. And they’d all have to pitch in taking care of the community…. emptying trash, raking leaves or cutting grass or shoveling snow, helping someone with a handyman project, etc and with the goal that this is temporary, you get your life back together or create a new one and you move up and let that tiny house help out the next person or couple in need.

Well if anyone has an extra $150K lying around and can’t think of what to do with it, give me a call…

In the meantime, thanks for listening and please, don’t have invisible people surround you. Look for them and you’ll see.  And once you see, you’ll have them in your heart and want to help

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The Uncomfortable Conversation (long)

Death.  Dying.  Funerals.  It happens to everyone but very few are comfortable talking about it.

(Trigger Warning: Death, Suicide, Cancer, Death of a Child)

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I think it becomes more comfortable as you get older, not because you’re getting closer to the inevitable but you’ve had more experience with it.  My great-Grandmother and great Uncle both passed in the early 70’s and I was young and mostly oblivious.  I don’t remember taking issue with it or having a problem with it.  Infact I remember nothing about it at all.  Odd.  I remember both of them, but not their deaths.

My Mom’s mom (aka the good Grandma) passed away in 1980 (I was 13).  Freaked me out.   She had a long battle with cancer that we mostly didn’t witness due to living out of state.  We made a trip back to see her for the last Christmas and then she passed 2-1/2 months later.  I only got to go with my Mom because she had recently had surgery and couldn’t travel well by herself and the airline ran a special allowing kids to fly free with a paid adult.

The rituals of funerals were overwhelming and confusing, only to be made worse with my oddball family.  Someone greeted me at the funeral home telling me they were sorry for my loss then in a sullen gesture with both hands out offered me something to take telling me “give this to you mother with my sympathies”.  I felt like I was involved in some deep family ritual that no one warned me about.  Being raised Catholic, you learn that there are appropriate and proper responses to everything and I was at a complete loss at what I was supposed to say.  Only to look down and see myself holding… a pair of socks?  As it turns out, that was my cousin (known to be a bit of a drama queen) and my mom had left the socks at her house on the last visit back East.  Sheesh.

I was adamant about not wanting to see my grandmother in the casket, preferring to remember her living… which my mom was completely supportive of  …. and along comes a cousin who decides that my decision is disrespectful and takes it upon himself to try and (literally) drag me into the room with the casket.  I should mention I was a tomboy, strong and always ready for a fight.  No problem for fighting off the rogue cousin.  Well, until I broke free and my split second of victory was shattered by winding up in the room next door seeing some complete stranger in a casket.  Well, it was creepy, but at least it wasn’t Grandma.

Needless to say there’s a reason that most family functions on that side of the family… weddings, funerals, etc have designated bouncers.  Too many, um, “forceful” opinions.  We were later kicked out of the funeral home because someone brought coffee and donuts and apparently that’s against health regulations in Brooklyn (or was at the time at least).

It wasn’t all bad though, we got our much needed comic relief at the cemetery.  We were approaching the gravesite when my very superstitious great-Aunt began saying how she hated walking through civilian cemeteries because she always felt like she was stepping on someone.  Military cemeteries have those nice uniform rows and civilian cemeteries are every which way.  We left the graveside only for the same great-Aunt to step into a rabbit hole and begin SHRIEKING “Help! They’re pulling me in!!!”  My great Uncle was frantically trying to help her while we were all laughing uncontrollably.  To date this is still one of the funniest memories I have.

Next came the dad of my best friend and (unofficially adopted) family when I was 20.  I focused on her, her mom, brothers and sisters and kept my eyes away from the front as much as possible.  I was working really hard at being a grown up although I wasn’t feeling rather successful at it.

It wasn’t until nine years later when my own father was diagnosed with cancer that the subject of death and dying now became a major point of discussion.

My dad had mesothelioma, a fast growing tumor that usually is found on the lower lobe of the lung, but his was wedged between his heart and lungs.  By the time they finally found it, it had rooted into his heart and nothing could be done.  He was sent home and hospice was contacted.

I don’t know why, but I became almost obsessed with knowing what he wanted and paranoid that we wouldn’t do the right thing.  I’m still really glad I asked because we all would have gotten it wrong.  Rather than the family plot back in New York City, he opted for cremation.  Pop had left the church years before (only attended if his parents were in town, to minimize drama) but in light of his diagnosis he wanted a priest and I was the one given the task.

Father Dave was an amazing man.  We had quite a few long conversations.  It was thanks to Father Dave that I finally felt like a grown up, confessing that I was not Catholic despite my upbringing and later lighting up a cigarette (due to the length of the conversation and stress of it all – don’t worry, I quit 15 years ago).  It was rather profound for me; no lightning strike and I didn’t burst into flame.  And then the oddest thing happened.  Father Dave thanked me.  I was so confused.  What could he possibly have to thank me for?  He said it was my honesty.  He appreciated that I didn’t put on a show for him, I didn’t pretend to be of the faith because I thought it was what he would want to hear. He also appreciated that I was willing to ask his opinions as another person rather than demanding answers and challenging his position and profession.

My daughter has always been the type of person that doesn’t like surprises and deals exceptionally well with things if she’s informed along the way.  She was very precocious 4-year old at the time.  I explained to her what was going on, detailing that some cancer is like rust (her other grandfather died of lung cancer when she was 2) and that other cancers are like water balloons that just keep getting bigger.  It made perfect sense to her and infact later she took it upon herself to explain it to her great Grandmother who was suffering more from denial than dementia at that point.

Kid was out playing when it was determined that Pop had slipped into a coma and the end was near.  I explained that it was “time” and that he would be leaving us soon.  She grabbed the chunky book that she always made him read to her and climbed in the hospital bed with him.  She proceeded to “read” the book and then sang a song to him.  Finally she gave him a kiss and then let him know that she had to go because it was bedtime.

Pop passed in the middle of the night and the funeral home came to pick up his body.  Frankly I always thought they kept bankers hours till then.  The next morning I met my daughter in her bedroom so we could talk and discuss what she would be seeing (or rather not seeing) since he was gone.  She informed me that she already knew that he was gone.  When I asked how she knew she told me that he had come up to see her before he left.  Kid when on to say that he had woken her up, let her know that he was leaving, told her to be good and that he’d see her later and that he loved her, then tucked her in and told her to go back to sleep.  I still get overwhelmed just thinking about that conversation 19 years later.

Father Dave had recommended the funeral home, noting that a lot of people complained that it looked more like an antique store rather than a funeral home.  Perfect choice.  I hate funeral homes.  On the day of the viewing, we were getting ready to leave the house when my daughter told me she had to get something and ran up to the bedroom returning with the same chunky book that she had read to him just a few nights before.  When I asked about it, she told me that she wanted to give it to him now since he wouldn’t be around for his birthday and she wouldn’t be able to give him a present then.

I learned a lot watching her.  No fear, just acceptance.  It was amazing to see someone, anyone, deal with this so matter of factly.  Not cold like a doctor, but just from a “this is okay, it happens” standpoint.  At the funeral home she greeted visitors at the door, showed them to the guest book and then walked them to the casket and left them here. No one instructed her to and no one had to tell her to give them time to themselves once they got to the casket. Somehow she just knew what to do.

Because of my dad, death became a topic of conversation for all of us.  Infact Kid informed me one day that she would prefer to have me “creamerated” so that if I died before she had kids then she could keep me around to meet them, she would do something with my ashes later “when she was done with me”.  Pretty deep for a 4 year old I thought.  When preschool started that fall she was asked to draw her family, we had to explain the box (of ashes) to her teacher who was quite confused.

A few short years later we had a rough couple of months.  From January to May there were 13 funerals between friends and family.  The hardest were in the first month.  My father’s mother who had been suffering from severe dementia passed from a ruptured aneurism, my Grandfather was completely lost.  They had been married 63 years and retired for the last 20, then in the last five years due to the dementia he was her world and she his.  My sister stayed with him to help him out and kept my daughter with her to give him another focus.

Mom & I came back to Columbus to return to work, only to get a call the following morning that a friend’s 8 month old baby had passed the night before.  Meningococcal meningitis. It usually hits college aged kids, but it got her instead.  From the time she was symptomatic to the time she passed it was 20 minutes.  Losing a baby… anyones baby, rocks your world.  Especially if you have kids.  All I could do was think of all the times my daughter had been sick.  It was also gut wrenching to watch the young single mother with her heart and purpose ripped from her as she sat next to the casket.

Two weeks later, the world as I knew it ended.  My best friend (and ex-fiancee) committed suicide.  I’m still reeling from this one all these years later.  There are no answers.  I suffered a nervous breakdown from the two events back to back. To make matters worse, due to a backlog at the coroner’s office and the required autopsy due to the nature of his death, there was a memorial service held in his honor but “he” was not in attendance.  There was no funeral. To this day I can’t picture Michael this way.  I used to have dreams that he would call me and tell me that he joined the witness protection program.  I guess Hollywood and my subconscious found a way to rationalize what I could not.

Mom passed at home like Pop did, with hospice care in 2002.  We only had a one day viewing before her cremation. My daughter, my sister, brother-in-law and I, were all much too drained emotionally to do much else.  Others felt cheated (?) if you will, that there wasn’t more time to visit and say good bye.  Something we had not considered because we were there through it all.

Grandpa went downhill rather quickly after Mom died.  He’d buried his parents, his baby brother, countless friends, his son and now his daughter-in-law.  The only ones left were his two granddaughters and his great granddaughter and he wasn’t sticking around for that.  It was agonizing for all involved to watch him as he deteriorated.  Of all the death “experience” we’d had, none of it was from old age.  To see him in a constant state of mourning and feeling punished by God, reasoning why else could he have outlived all these people only to linger and watch?  He passed a week before his 97th birthday.  This now left me as the oldest of the family at the age of 37.

What I have realized from all of this is that funerals are for the living.  They help us process what has happened and accept the transition that this person has made from life to death.  It’s important for us to see this in some manner. In as much as I didn’t want to see my Grandmother in her casket all those years ago, we still had the funeral, the entire family mourning and the cemetery. The pieces were together.

While it’s noble to say that when you die you don’t want a funeral, please consider that others need it or some form of one to help them process what has happened and deal with their loss.


Here’s where my conversation takes a little bit of a left turn if you will.  When my father’s mother passed in January 1997, it was too cold for the plot to be prepared in a timely manner due to the ground being frozen.  We had a second smaller service in the cemetery chapel rather than at the graveside.  Before leaving I expressed my wishes to go to the gravesite anyway.  It’s a family plot, my great Grandparents and great Aunt and Uncle are all buried there.  I was also trying to do a bit of family genealogy and there was a discrepancy regarding my great Grandmother’s date of birth.  I was hoping that I would find the date I was looking for on the headstone.

The headstone at that site is one larger piece of marble with the last name on it, then the first names and dates are on a second base slab below it.  As I mentioned, the gravesite was not ready for burial, but it was dug and there were large boards covering it.  I visited for a few minutes, realizing that I hadn’t been there since the last time it had been opened in 1971.  The board that was laid across the plot was blocking the information on the bottom of the stone and I attempted to move it just a couple of inches so I could see the dates.  Instead, the board fell in the hole, everyone started yelling because they thought I fell in and I scared myself and screamed anticipating to see a similar scene to the pool scene in Poltergeist (the one with the pool).  Instead, what I saw were caskets that looked “showroom new” 26 years after burial.  How is that possible?

Medgar Evers, the famous civil rights activist, was assassinated in 1963.  The person responsible for his death wasn’t finally convicted until 1994.  As part of the pretrial process, Evers’ body was exhumed to gather evidence.  His son was told to leave the room, as no loved one should see remains like that, but was soon invited back in.  It looked as though his father had only been recently buried with the casket and his body intact, not at all looking as it “should have” having being buried for 31 years.

It’s now 2014.  You can’t go a week without the term “green” or the prefix “eco” landing somewhere in your life.. whether you choose to pursue it or not.  And all I can think of is those caskets.  How long will they sit there “showroom new”?  I’ve read about how embalming fluids are toxic in the ground… although you’ve got to get through the casket now don’t you?   I’ve heard and read about how cremation isn’t very “earth friendly” because of the energy used and what is emitted into the atmosphere.

Population on this planet has literally doubled in the course of my lifetime, which means that there are more people dying.  Where are we putting them?  Have you ever seen a new cemetery open for business?  I haven’t.  I know that more are building and entombing above ground.  My grandfather once told me (in reference to the family plot) that each plot should “hold” 3 people, that they bury at 3, 6 & 9 feet and then can add to it every 25 years to allow for decomposition.  Well that’s obviously not the case with what I’ve witnessed first hand.

Frankly I don’t think we were supposed to go past the pine boxes, burial shrouds and pyres of our ancestors. While I don’t pretend to know what the answer is I do think we need to be looking for a solution before it becomes a huge problem.

I did see this video the other day which is what prompted this post (along with another conversation with my daughter).

I think its a very innovative step towards a solution for a growing problem that no one is talking about… yet.  I hope it prompts others to consider the issues being faced and those that will come eventually and it challenges them to work on other solutions as well.


We need to have these conversations with our families, no matter how awkward or uncomfortable.  It’s part of life, it’s part of the process of preparation.  Not just for planning one’s own funeral, but for helping them in dealing with our eventual death.

I considered my parents cancer to be somewhat of a blessing in that we had time to begin the process together.  I could help them be comfortable with their own upcoming death and they could help me begin the grieving process.

While we can never be fully prepared and the loss is always felt, having time to discuss things and wrap your brain around it does seem to lessen the overwhelmingness somewhat.  From where I sit, it seems that those who suffer a sudden loss have so much more to deal with and process and sometimes never quite work their way through it. Having dealt with both, I’d much rather deal with illness rather than something sudden and unexpected.

As for me, my plans are simple.  After my loved ones get to see me in my new state, I will be cremated.  My ashes will be divided between my daughter and all my besties.  They can all deal with the transition and say good bye as they see fit.  One is already planning on planting me with a tree.  I originally heard about Keith Richards (of the Rolling Stones) doing this with his dad and I absolutely love the idea.  As a tree I will be able to breathe well again, continue to live in a new form and continue to add to the quality of life of others as well.  I did some looking around and found this awesome biodegradable urn from Eternitrees.

Of course knowing my love of irony and crafts (along with one bestie in particular), someone could wind up making me into an ashtray…  and that’s okay too.  It’s about their closure, not mine.
{{{hugs}}}

Maggie