By Divyani Makharia
One day, my love, I will leave this world—
as every wildflower must bow to the wind,
as every star must blink out at dawn.
But don’t you weep for me, my darling.
I will not turn to cold, forgotten ash.
No—
I will bloom again, in the strangest, most wondrous way.
Let me tell you a secret:
There’s a tiny fungus that lives in the deep forest,
it grows quietly,
it listens to the earth,
and it knows how to give back.
And when my time comes,
I want to give myself to that magic.
To become a cradle for life—
a vessel for the spores that dance on the wind.
I want to rest beneath a golden field,
where the crops grow tall and the sun kisses every leaf.
And maybe—just maybe—
the fungi I carry will spread gently through the soil,
chasing away the pests
so the farmer’s seeds can grow strong and whole.
So when you take a bite of warm, sweet corn,
or feel the breeze through wheat dancing like lullabies,
know this—
That somewhere in that harvest,
is a piece of me,
loving you still.
Even in death, I choose to be something
that helps you live.
That feeds your world.
That holds your hand in the roots and the rain.
Because that’s how much I love you, my child.
Enough to become part of the earth,
just to whisper, always—
“I am here.”