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dear physics, a eulogy request in advance

Aaron Freeman, can your physicist come to my funeral too and explain my own dispersal? in my head i see them standing by the ashes talking about the metaphor this funeral represents- the spreading of what’s left of me, the explosion of my infinitesimal self into everything else. or maybe that’s just the poet in me, making up things as i go. they’ll probably stand and say we are all made of molecules, and matter before we ever even begin to considered cells, the division of life into life with or without kernels before nucleus comes neutrons spinning in the centre of things all the biologists will have a fit. but they’ll still wait with one hand on the urn, and say biology can’t comfort you like this will. say something about the law of conservation of mass (you were anything before you were this and you are everything after this until all the edges). something about stardust. dispersion, refraction into light. your physicist takes a seat at my funeral and i’m hoping it’s a comfort and not another reminder that i am in a thousand other places except for here. my english teacher mother tells them to restate their thesis and conclude in different words; your physicist and i know this is all in my head because funerals are for the living, and when this all happens i will be six days dead burned past the point of no recognition into the point of disintegration my bones fused together and crackling with delight, decomposing cells wicked away with flame- your physicist gets up again, walks so slow up the middle of the row to say i have done two funerals today, one for a catastrophe and one for an atrophy. someone once told me they could feel themselves slipping away. someone once told me there was an explosion implosion inside their curled up lungs every time they tried to breathe. a finger in the ashes and your physicist lists off its chemical composition to the mark, using words like the element of surprise or eloquence or a rare one, a smile. somewhere within these molecules they say there was a person once, twice, forever and now they can never die. or what’s left of them at least, is that us or an eternity, not until the ends of everything. the physicist sits down, science in their lap like a bible or a comfort. i am not here to witness but if i were scattered to the winds in my own fragility i would think even your physicist might cry if they come to the funeral.