A handwritten note

They gather in rows and they gather in lines. Equidistant and quick, one at a time, ants with a task under the direction of their queen. They start with the oldest, who steps into the pyramid, offers his body so they'll care for him. He walks in, his light goes out. Eyes roll back as the body slumps in the chair, two arms, ten fingers, one head. He thought the fire would lift him up but he falls into a pile of ashes. The second-oldest steps up next, offers her body, and so on, and so forth, systematic, machines. Later, the young will collect the ashes, will turn the ash into feed for the crops. And isn't this how community should be, the young caring for the old, the old making room for the young? They start the fire and the bodies recycle, the bodies burn. So long, thirty-nine billion nerves in each of the hundred-and-six separate forms; together burn two hundred twelve arms; together, two hundred twelve legs. The skin starts to flay and the young work swiftly to clean up—ashes collected, floor swept, systematic, machines. Isn't this how community should be?