No One Is Buried With A Birkin Bag

Peeping inside a prepared casket or cremation container is like looking into Ariel’s secret grotto. It’s a private love language worthless to the onlooker, but fiercely precious to the body it shrouds.

Tucked in the hands and pockets of the dead are the most intimate possessions. A favorite pillow that once cradled a lover’s head, a worn stuffed animal, handwritten letters and recipes, photos from 70s supper clubs with slippery old fashioneds in hand. All tiny, extraordinary clues to the human that was.

Endearing incongruities, like a formal dress paired with slouchy work socks, prove that a Midwestern spirit never ceases.

Imagine if instead of dying this honestly, we lived this honestly.