where the writers are
Ancient Buriel Site

 

Ancient burial site

Within the excavated

grave of the elaborate and heavily

tattooed, high priestess in the culture with no gold were the following items

A spotted pony upon which she lay.

A hunting dog curled at her feet.

A crown of semiprecious stones adorned her head.

A mantle of eagle feathers rested upon her shoulders.

A thong amulet nestled against her throat.

Upon it hung a single shell worn smooth.

A bustier of rabbit skins caressed her breasts.

A pair of leather boots concealed her feet.

Around her body upon the painted pony her many children placed the material contents of her life.

A bone rattle by each hand.

A pink bracelet strung from mother of pearl. 

A bowl and pestle carved from sandstone.

Three bone needles pierced a folded pocket of snakeskin.

A quiver with seven stone tipped arrows and a bow.

A flint for making fire.

A stone ax.                   

Various odds and ends for which we have no name today.

Except for the pony and the dog, the decisions made for which items to leave with her were made by her. I know. I was there as she wrested a gnarled club from the arms of her sister holding on to the memory of her mate long after he succumbed to a bear’s claws.

The wisdom of the priestess dictated ever after, until we forgot the language of memory, that memory should fade once laughter no longer peals from the throat, and the light burns out of the eyes, and the arms no longer hold love, and the heart cannot beat music within the chest.

Otherwise, she declared, by holding onto things, the living forget to live, as the memory of the dead reinvents itself with every wakening as though there were a gnarled club clutched against our breast.

Do this she said to me across 40,000 years.