Today in the paper he reads about a woman named Aurora who
had told her husband, Raymond, that she wanted to be buried with
her beloved car. So Raymond made arrangements with the local
funeral home to purchase a row of fourteen plots, which he believed
to be more than enough for a 1976 Cadillac convertible. And he told
the backhoe operator to dig one long trench the length of those four—
teen plots and plenty wide-a trench with a dirt ramp at one end. For
Raymond, himself, would take the red Cadillac, white top down, for
its last ride from the church to the cemetery, where the pallbearers
would balance the casket across the trunk and backseat.
On that morning, as the first light spread its white wings across
the horizon, Raymond slipped the key into the ignition, started the
engine, pulled on the headlights, and transported his beloved Aurora
on the back of her favorite car, its golden lights pushing back the
darkness of this long highway.

“Aurora” by David Bengtson from Broken Lines. © Juniper Books.