Points in Dying

Yesterday at the park we found a bone. Anja, nine years old, evaluated it and tried to figure out what kind of animal it was. Sofie, four years old, sat back on a bench in quiet reflection and then declared, "I don't see the point in dying." I tried to explain the circle of life and how the bone was going to decay into the ground and give back to the plants that feed and shelter us animals. Though my heart wasn't completely in it, I controlled myself by not going off on a tangent and talking about the atrocities of embalming. So I simply ended the conversation bluntly referring her to uncle Sean if she really wanted to know her options. I remember being afraid of dying when I was ten and I remember discussing the subject with ten year olds at the group home I worked at as they had so many questions at that age about evolution, death, and religion. When I was ten I would have liked to be encased in glass like an image of snow white I had in my head. I wanted there to be air in case I wasn't really dead and a lovely bed to lie on until I awoke again, by whatever means. Now I just don't want to be embalmed. I have heard of people being left out to be eaten by the vultures in certain areas or the more costly option like on "six feet under" of being buried in the ground without the box and the chemicals. Partly for the environmentally obvious reasons, but I don't want to have people handling my body after death especially in such grotesque ways, except of course for donated parts which I expect to be re-used if there's anything of value left when I'm done with them. I have to wonder what people will really do in the future with my brother's frozen head? I'm not afraid to refer Sofie to Sean though because that girl will always make up her own mind.