The stream that runs through Karori Cemetery smells of mothballs. The eau de vie of the end , perfume of a 1000 musty last moments, a spectral residue of a circle completed. The trees curl and strut amongst the cracked old graves. Spongy grass forms a mattress over my ancestors . My feet spring with every step . The flesh of my line becomes the fat of the land, or could, the abundantly fertile pasture sits un-grazed. I hope my grave smells of whisky and of bay and kawakawa and of exhilarated wet dog after a midwinter walk. I hope sheep feast above my bones and grow happy and fat before facing their butcher. I hope to never fill that vacancy , some appointments happen regardless of RSVP. Hope springs eternal like a mothball scented stream .