Leaving on a Jet Plane

I'm off again home in a day and a half. Back to Tennessee, where my heart will always be, but where I'll probably never live again.

It's where I come from, and to some degree, the place that defines me most. It certainly shaped my values: we take care of our own up there.

Still, I've made my life elsewhere. When I was home last month, I realized acutely that I was just a visitor, a tourist revisiting his old stomping grounds.

I live in Austin now, and that is where my life is and will remain.

Still, part of me will always be there.

Daddy's death has brought up strange conversations between my mother and me. Maybe strange isn't the best word. "Unusual." How's that?

When I talked to her over the weekend, we talked about a life insurance policy that she and Daddy had maintained since I was about 18. They bought one for each of us three kids--just enough to get us buried and then a little bit more. She can't really afford to maintain it, and I was already planning to increase my insurance. The price is good, so I'm going to take it over.

That led to a conversation about funerals and final arrangements. I told her I wanted to be cremated. I had expected her to not like that idea, but her response was "Well, it's definitely cheaper."

Yes, it is.

She was surprised that I also want a small memorial in the little country cemetary where a lot of my family is buried in Medina, TN. Just a small stone with an urn that can hold half of my ashes. The other half will go to Shannon.

For whatever reason, having part of my incinerated husk at Hopewell seems more important than ever. I'll be close to Daddy and Grandma and Douglas (my little brother) and Carol (my cousin) and even Granddaddy Morgan (he's over on the other side of cemetary where Grandma can't see him--don't ask). Mama will be there before or after. And part of me will be back where I grew up in the place that helped make me who I am.

Part of me will stay with Shannon, too, to do what he wants with. He can keep what's left, toss it in the ocean or leave it in Bastrop State Park (site of some of the loveliest pines you'll ever see).

Going home makes me think too much. And that is just one more reason God made Xanax. In times like this, it's almost like Holy Communion.