To Die For

In my coffin, put-

Grass and wildflowers from the farm where my mom and her siblings grew up-

One of my dog’s baby teeth-

Fabric from my baby blanket, the dulled green one with Winnie the Pooh on it-

A bright red feather from a cardinal that ate from our bird feeder-

A scrap of paper from my first doodle-

The cover of my first sketchbook-

The first needle that I used to inject myself with insulin when I was diagnosed with diabetes-

One, not both, of the old Reds Baseball flipflops that I got my dad for Christmas one year as a joke because he hates, “those flimsy shower shoes”-

A lock of my hair from when I cut it completely off in third grade so I looked like my favorite news broadcaster-

A grape dum-dum lollipop, partly sucked on, then placed back in its wrapper-

Some, if not all, of the sweatshirts and jackets that I determinedly wore long into summer-

A whatchamacallit that I found under the dresser that I could definitely find an artsy use for, or maybe I just don’t have the heart to throw it out-

A piece of cloth from my first attempt at sewing a plush-

The Supergirl doll I stripped of her factory clothes, hair, and paint, redesigning her from scratch into a new character-

A yard sign-

A Harry Potter book from the original worn-to-shreds set my parents bought when the books first came out-

A political campaign sticker-

My first baseball cap from when I was a baby-

A tiny New Testament Bible with my name untidily scrawled into the front cover-

The pink radio that belonged to my cousin Robin before she and her father died in a house fire-

The 2ft tall Lego Ronald McDonald I inherited from Robin’s mother when she had a heart attack a few years after the fire-

And my toy pig, who’s losing one of his legs and has turned gray in old age, far from the pink tone he was when I was born and held him for the first time.