In my culture when a person is dead they are burned, that how it is, that how it should be. Yet in forgetting forgiveness, in holding on to their hate, their anger so many come to lie in their funeral pyres long before their time. Flames recognizing neither the dead nor alive consume a man all the same. It is up to a man how he wants to meets that fire, at peace and at rest or in a state of turmoil and alive.
When I die, my descendants will burn my body and cast the ashes into a river to be carried away. To them, only in death was I ever there. Yet it was not true. From my first breath to the last I was already there. The world and all within it being not unlike the river bed. The rushing current being the passage of time, how it brought new things from upstream, and how it eroded and decayed the old till it was to carried away, to either settle elsewhere or to float to the unknown.