Graves and Coffins

My week has been populated by graves and coffins, large and small, simple and elaborate, final place of the Gods and the unknowns, coffins filled with gold, filled with bones, filled with trinkets worthy of a museum, filled with a toy stuffed seal, filled with probably nothing extra at all.

Gravesite #1. My dad. It fell to my sister and me to pick out the "box" for my father. We stepped into the funeral home "shopping area," a set right out of 6-Feet-Under and perused the options, from ridiculously gaudy and ornate to the chillingly simple pine box used by the most strict of Orthodox Jews.

What standards does one use to make such a decision. What would my dad want? My mom? The small crowd that would gather to toss a handful of dirt on top and then watch it being lowered into the ground? My sister and I ran our hands along wood polished and unpolished, along brass handles and various cloth linings. What were we feeling for? Who would be feeling the high quality silk? Were we looking for wood that would withstand the harsh Philadelphia elements or that would deteriorate as quickly as possible, releasing my dad's flesh and bones into the soil, adding nutrients, adding life.

At a loss, we decided on the same coffin that my cousins Mark and Cindy chose for their parents and grandmother. Tradition seemed as good a standard as anything else.