Haibun: Beach Sand

For Marian’s prompt at Toads, one word: muddy

Haibun: Beach
Sand
“I wonder if my first breath was as soul-stirring to my mother as her last breath was to me.” Lisa Goich-Andreadis

My mother and I were a lot alike. One thing – we both hated getting our feet muddy. Walking in the dry soil of the garden, striding across the lawn in the dew of early morning, skipping in the waves of the ocean and dodging inbound crabs in the sand – yes. But muddy feet? No.

When I was interring her ashes in her mother’s grave, I took a ziploc bag of North Carolina beach sand and put some into the hole I had dug. I poured in her ashes and then the rest of the sand. I patted it down firmly and placed several rocks on the place. Sweat dripped from my face like tears.
hot summer day –
buried in NC beach sand
that she loved dearly

 

Real Toads Tuesday Platform: Country Burial

This is posted for Real Toads Tuesday Platform.

Country Burial
A Cairn –
Placing a few rocks one on top of the other,
dug from the hard red clay.
My mother’s ashes reside here,
in the country cemetery
nestled in her mother’s grave.
I drove the several hours down to Bahama
(buh-hay-muh)
to the Mount Moriah Church –
where most of our ancestors lay.
The first one laid to rest was my
great-times-many grandmother –
buried with her infant son on her breast.
Since 1790. A long time.
My mother is the most recent.
I dug the hole,
wrestling with the drought hard ground
rusty red…the blood of the soil
makes good tomatoes, my great-grandfather said.
I poured her ashes into the hole
and filled it back with the chunks of dirt.
then all the rocks that I dug out
I placed in a pile.
I left my mother’s ashes there.
But I brought some of the soil back with me –
in a shoebox along with some rocks.
And the tomatoes grown in that red soil!
So tangy they jump off the plate and slap you
across the face before you can stick a fork in ‘em –
no passive sweet tomatoes grown in this dirt.
Mama would be pleased.

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