One year after my friend Marcy learned she would die decades sooner than she would have liked, she wrote a letter to the core group of women she called her Sisterhood.
“Death is not my friend but it is no longer my enemy,” she wrote. “It is our collective reality and I may get to model walking into it first. I hope that the way I walk there, protected and emboldened by a cape made up of your love, will better prepare you for your own journeys.”
She did that, in part, by making sure the labor surrounding her dying was shared. Her sister would sew her shroud. Her brother would craft a lowering board from a tree harvested and milled on his farm. We would bathe her after her death, carry her to her grave, hand lower her into the earth, and fill the hole with flowers, tears, mulch, and dirt. Read More