I Buried My Mother in a Cardboard Box

"When you scratch or scrub yourself, dry skin is flaked off and new skin cells are born. In the time it takes you to read this paragraph, thousands of cells will have died. But there are so many, you do not have time to organize funerals for them."

       Thich Nhat Hanh, The Art of Living

I am twelve years old, sitting in the mortuary office with my mother, who is planning the funeral for my little brother, who just died of leukemia.

Of course, the consultant would like to sell her the "better quality" choices. I am focused on his discussion of grave liners. (Grave liners are boxlike structures made of concrete whose main purpose is to prevent the soil of the grave from sinking and collaspsing. Cemeteries often propose upgrading to a less porous material or a vault, which may be protective, supposedly sheltering the casket from moisture and deterioration.) At the moment, I find the director's presentation of alternatives morbidly interesting, and I am not surprised when my mother chooses the least expensive liner. She also selects a simple casket.

When we are alone, she tells me not to think that she is dishonoring my brother by making cost-saving choices. She says, "I believe in the Bible when it says ashes to ashes and dust to dust."

The day before the funeral, we have a private family viewing at the funeral home. The casket is the kind with the lid split into two parts. Half of it is open, allowing us to see the upper part of my brother's body. Dad asks Mom if she would like him to open the other half. She declines. I say nothing, although I wish it could be opened, because I polished my brother's shoes for this occasion, and I'd like to see them.

Forty-five years later, Mom and I are at the same mortuary, planning my father's funeral. I am thinking about "ashes to ashes". Our consultant is a pleasant woman who discusses the options and then takes us to a room to look at caskets. Most prominently displayed, of course, are the luxury models, polished walnut and mahogany with gleaming brass fittings. Up against the wall, I see the plain-looking budget models. I point to a beige one. "My father was a frugal man," I say. "I think he would prefer this."

Later, going through Dad's closet to select his final outfit, I feel a strange combination of irritation, sadness, and embarrassment at how threadbare his dress shirts are, and how hard it is to find socks without holes. At the funeral, it occurs to me, too late, that I could have just bought some things. My brother has Dad's glasses removed from the body so that they can be donated.

Fourteen years later, at the same mortuary, my siblings and I and our spouses are in the conference room planning Mom's funeral. Our consultant presents a slide show with various casket choices. They all seem stunningly expensive for boxes that are just going to be viewed briefly and then buried. I say, "She chose the budget options for her son and husband, and I think that's what she'd want for herself." The budget option turns out to be a container made of "pressed cardboard". It sounds dreadful, but I choose it, and the siblings agree.

There will be no viewings, as we are planning a simple graveside ceremony. It's just as well, because no one could find any presentable clothes in Mom's closet, and she will be buried wearing hiking shorts. I probably could have bought something, but circumstances and schedules have been unexpectedly complicated, and, thinking of "ashes to ashes," I decide that clothes don't matter at this point.

The day of the funeral is sunny. I worry that the cardboard casket will be tacky and embarrassing. Actually, it looks pretty. It is light blue and has a floral pattern pressed into the surface. We did not hire an officiant, but Mom's brother and her cousin have some nice things to say.

As my husband and I walk to our car, I look back and realize that the cemetery workers have already quietly lowered the cardboard casket into ground.