TheBanyanTree: As long as the subject is ashes....

[Theta Brentnall]

My husband's parents are buried in a cemetery on the top of a hill 
overlooking the coast south of San Francisco.  It has a great view, but 
I never have any sense of them when we've visited the grave site.

My parents were very adamant that they didn't want graves - they both 
wanted to be cremated, but when it came to what to do with the ashes, 
there was always some confusion.  As I was by my mother's bed in her 
last few days of life, we talked about this a lot.  She didn't want to 
be scattered in water because she was always afraid of water.  She 
didn't want to be planted under a tree because we'd just end up moving 
and whoever bought our house would chop the tree down.  And so forth and 
so on.  Then she'd laugh and say she didn't know why it mattered -- she 
wasn't going to care.  But I could tell it bothered her, so I told her 
that I would take the ashes and keep them in my sewing room until Father 
went to join her.  Then I'd put them together and figure out what to do 
with them.  She liked that idea, so for the next 10 years she was in a 
box on the shelf above the sewing machine, where I could have 
discussions with her about why the seams on this dress weren't working 
out right.  The ashes came in a plain, gray metal box, and over the 
years, I found a larger, nicely carved wooden box (at a garage sale - 
she'd have loved it) and I started adding things to the box.  Copies of 
her and father's wedding photo, pictures of the girls, a piece of lace 
from Maggie's wedding dress, a lock of hair from her first grandchild.  
It was an on-going conversation, a long good-bye that grew more 
comforting for me as the years went by. 

With my dad, we had four years at the end of his life to do a lot of 
talking, remembering, sharing laughter and stories.  In the last few 
weeks, I asked him if he had any ideas about what he wanted done with 
his and mother's ashes.  He didn't hesitate - he wanted to be at the 
cemetery at Ft. Sam Houston in San Antonio.  So after his death, I had 
several very lovely conversations with the staff there, mailed off the 
two boxes to be tucked into the columbarium and got a sympathy card 
along with the directions to their location.  An acquaintance was a 
little shocked - so far away!  But they aren't far away.  Just the 
little left-over pieces of the bodies they shed. And when we go down to 
San Antonio some time, and stand in front of the wall where their ashes 
rest, I doubt I'll feel them "there" any more than I sense Gerry's 
parents on that hilltop.  They are off on another great adventure, but 
when I need them close, then they are as close as my heart.  That's 
where they are.

Theta