I Bequeath Myself to the Dirt to Grow From the Grass I Love

When Sister Debby was battling cancer and it wasn’t going well she called me to her room one morning. She handed me a book open to a page in the middle somewhere. The book was Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. “I want to give you this book. I think you’ll really like it. And I want you to read this page at my memorial.” I was shocked. I was so in denial. I couldn’t let in the idea that she would die. I have no idea what I said. Or if I said anything. I left with the book and put it away somewhere without even looking at it. I recall awhile later when she got some good news about her treatment she told me “Turns out I will be speaking at your memorial instead.” But that was temporary and eventually she succumbed.

Brother Mark was in charge of the memorial and in preparation reminded me of Deb’s request. Instant panic. I didn’t even remember what I had done with the book, let alone what I was supposed to read. I found the book and prayed the page was marked. No luck. I was heartsick and panicked thinking “She asked me to do this one simple thing and I blew it.” I started reading the book despairing of any hope of recognizing the quote. But suddenly there it was and there could be no doubt.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.