I want better than to leave a gravesite and a marker for my descendants to tend in bad weather. Instead, I want to give them a cabin in the woods where the swords of morning’s first light cleave down through the trees to illuminate the doors and windows. I envision the children of children pressed against the cabin windows, waiting for enough light that they might run deep into the woods with chipmunks bouncing across the pathways ahead of them. I want a yearlong creek flouncing nearby and swallowtail butterflies fluttering through every summer day. And give my descendants perfectly white snow several times every winter.
Let me be remembered and forgotten in all of that.