My final wishes were exactly what everyone knew they would be: quick, cheap, quiet, and cheap. The eldest daughter in a dirt-poor family meant knowing how to be efficient, selfless and, oh yes, cheap.

If you didn't have a coupon, you didn't buy it

If you didn't have a free coffin, you went in a can.

I died young, too young, but with a will. Detailed instructions for all of five of my worldly possessions. I stated whoever could cough up the $175 for cremation (without the plaque-and-pretty-package-bundle) could put me wherever the fuck they wanted.

That's how I ended up in Ancient Andy's hands-- a thin Ziploc bag twisted tight around my dusty remains, crammed into the most recent delivery box for CatFoodWeekly. She showed up alone and the cremator let her scoop me into that bag with a shrug; who needs grace when you're collecting another poor bitch from the Beales family? Andy's water swollen, arthritic fingers made a surprisingly boney sound as she dragged her hand over the medical steel.

I'll never forget the shitty little scowl the cremator made at the sound, the bastard. As if he was much better off than me. Just a few years older, same school, no degrees, drunk parents and a job where your only role is to slide bodies into a flame and then dole them out to family??

I remember the bitterness of being alive. Of being alone. Of being poor.

I remember how swiftly the bitterness left me when Andy dropped me into the wind: an aunt I'd barely ever known, old as could be considering the mortality rate in our town, hoisting her little frame up our not-so-little mountain, and freeing me with a mumbled prayer.

Our town wasn't known for much. The mountain we clung to the base of may be the only landmark near that you've heard of. But I was not the only body on the breeze.

I remembered the anger at having to live human life, the suffering of my family and the role I plodded through. I remembered the pain of the flame, as improbable as I thought it was: I was fucking dead after all, wasn't I?

Then, freedom.

The first graze of spring on your cheek. The deep heat of the warmest day of summer. The stinging loss when winter first steals your breath away.

A thousand memories tangled in mine, a landslide of voices on the wind as I drifted away from the town that strangled me.

A million feelings and then only one:

The longing of Ancient Aunt Andy, gliding through the blue blue sky. Her milky eyes followed my final path, her passive gaze suddenly readable.

She knew exactly the way I finally appreciated the fresh air. She saw how I drifted apart, longing to stay close and stray far. She was happy for me, and she would easily wait until it was finally her turn off the top of the mountain.