She suggests I get it frozen and we'll plant it have a ceremony choose a tree invite the girls around, she'll make scones. It is so left field my jaw drops and my mind clamps on an image of my flesh in some box red and pulverised and dropping petals on it in the hole and whispering chants or more likely bad puns because words are my thing. I tell her it will be a mastectotree. I hope they grow in this climate. But later the petals are tears and my throat is the trunk and the hole is the year ahead dark as a hatch with all the things I can't imagine or do imagine psychedelic as a happy-gas dream that fades to black. I won't plant a piece of me diseased and butchered but I will choose a tree and nurture it and I will invite the girls around and my precious family too and eat her scones and laugh because love is the biggest thing and you can't bury that.