My brother’s ashes
(I only really looked at them once
So my memory may not be accurate)
Were in a plastic bag
In a plastic box.
The bag was held shut
With a twist-tie.
I like to think it was green,
The color of life.
The rectangular box —
Neither orange
Nor brown
More the color of a dead autumn leaf —
Snapped shut
Like a pocket watch
Safely holding time inside.
It stood upright on the mantle
For at least year.
I whispered to it sometimes,
I miss you, Stewart.
But he didn’t answer.
He smiled placidly at me
From the photograph
Beside the box.
We placed it in the Columbarium —
It seems like only yesterday —
But it was rainy
And spring
Not frosty
And fall
Tomorrow
The man will bring a new plastic box
Because my mother wouldn’t have wanted an urn
Jim joked about Cool-Whip containers
My mother would have liked that reuse
But I suppose it’s undignified
So she’ll have the box
That comes free
With cremation
She always appreciated a bargain.
This piece was originally written 11/18/2015 — two weeks after my mother died. I guess I never posted it because I found it in my draft folder while I was searching the word “miss” — Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt.
Yes, miss is there — “I miss you, Stewart.”
I had looked at Linda’s prompt last night thinking maybe it would simmer during the night, like my mother’s soups used to on the woodstove. She made the best soup. She really did.
In the wee hours of the morning, the only miss I was thinking on was how I was missing sleep. I suppose I could have written a post on that.
Instead, I decided to give myself a hand by searching drafts. I have over 300 of them! This one hit home because I just had a conversation with a good friend (and this is the Stream of Consciousness part of the post.) It went something like this:
Friend: I suppose I should check on (insert person’s name). Her husband’s dying. He’s probably gone.
Me: You should definitely do that. Especially if you want to go the funeral.
[Note: he had served in Vietnam with the man who was dying.]
Friend: I don’t go to funerals.
Me: Even for someone you’ve known so long?
Friend: I don’t go to funerals. I only go to Celebrations.
I confess. I was judgy after that conversation, but reading this piece about the plastic boxes, I was reminded that grief is so individual.
We, as Americans, don’t have just one way to deal with death. Some have elaborate affairs and big funerals. Some celebrate the life. Some cremate. Some bury.
It seems to be a mix of honoring the person who died, and those left behind saying good-bye. I feel like my family did both with funerals.
And it’s Father’s Day on Sunday.
I miss my father.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 