Wow, did this phone message blindside me. This death thing - I thought I was handling it fairly well. I was ready for it, welcomed it even. I wanted Dad to be at peace and not be trapped in what was left of his body.
But suddenly, it was all so final. We couldn't go back. Not that we could go back, ever. It's just that, he's now reduced to ashes - dust. "Remember man that you are dust and into dust you shall return." The furtive prayer we say every Ash Wednesday came roaring back into my head. But now, this was personal. This is my Dad. He's gone...forever.
And so I picked him up. Joked a bit about taking him for a ride. But I was bothered. I showed Mom the pretty cardboard box. She gave it a soft finger kiss and I placed it back in the back seat. Then I took it home. I took him home.
For a while, Dad's ashes sat on the kitchen table. Then, concerned that a mishap might happen when the cleaning lady was here, I tucked him away in the guest bedroom.
But now I'm bothered by this. I'm dreaming of it and not in a good way. I can't help but feel incredibly uncomfortable. I'm surprised that having my Dad's ashes in my house is so bothersome to me, but it is. I'm always honest here and that's why I continue to write.
His ashes will be scattered later this year and as the caregiver for Mom and Dad, I feel responsible to keep the ashes here. But I don't like it. I don't like it at all and I'm not at peace with it. I need to make peace with it so I can move on.
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