After Death

I love the mother/daughter conversations Emma and I have as I drive her to school. I cherish these conversations because she’s almost 16, and soon enough, she’ll be driving herself, and this moment will be gone forever. Sometimes though, the conversations take a wrong turn. Like today’s. It went something like this:

Emma: When I die I don’t want to be buried underground.

Me: Really? Where do you want to be buried?

Emma: That’s not what I meant. I want to be cremated.

Me: Me, too. Remember tha...