Writing practice. Hair. 10 minutes.

When I die I want to be buried in your hair as I am buried now—my face burrowed deep in your neck, smelling the sweat mixed with the scent of shampoo. All the people I ever loved will snip a bit of their hair, entrust it in an envelope and slip in a short good-bye note, things you always wanted to say but thought you live forever—and in these notes, curly, straight, Asian black, blond, kinky, brunette, red, bleached, conditioned, gelled, waxed, I shall be buried in and then give birth to a tree. A tree. So make sure I swallow a seed deep in my tummy when I die. Tell the embalsamador not to take that away. I will burst forth, alive again, after ten years, a young sapling tree, my roots in your hair, nourished by your cells, and I will see the sun again. Yes, this is how I want it for me. Please, please be kind to me, to this tree-wannabe, while I still have legs to dance on, lungs to scream a song out of, and hair on the roots of my scalp. Please be nice. Water me gently and talk to me, making sure I flourish, that I bear fruit for the hungry. Now you do this for me. Promise me. Malunggay tree, so my leaves be full of vitamins C and E. Or mango, my fruit gold and juicy. Come on, help me decide. Star apple? Always in season, tall as grandpa can climb, though he never let me follow. Or the duhat of my childhood, which was home to mischievous duendes. But if you are kind you can make a wish, and they'll help you. Lost cat, lost necklace, lost jewelry, lost sock. Lost mind, lost brother or spouse or car. The duende will help you find it, if you are kind. Put a note on my Tree-Being "All Kind Duendes Welcome" Come in, take shelter, burrow into my torso timber, my arm branches, and tickle my leg roots. Come, let us be of help to the living humans forever lost, forever crying for their lost

photo credit FoxyIdea.com