Ashes - Excerpt from Fierce Love

On September 21, 2005, my mother died after a long and debilitating illness. The following is an excerpt from the short story I wrote in her memory.

(The morning of her death, I went into) my mother's office. I turned on the light and saw it pretty much as she had left it, save for a few photo albums her granddaughter Hannah had leafed through. In the front of the file cabinet, exactly as Mom had described, was a folder labeled, "To be used at my memorial service, as you think appropriate." It was a hand-written essay, about two pages long, dated September 1981, about a hike my parents had taken in the Colorado mountains to see the changing of the aspen leaves. As they moved through a forest, they discussed how the old trees fell away and decayed, providing room and nourishment for the young. It was clear that Mom had viewed death as a natural and necessary part of life.

In later years, I often accompanied my parents to the mountains for the annual viewing of the colors. At a particularly scenic alpine lake right below timberline (during a year when my own health was uncertain), I casually expressed my desire to be cremated and scattered at that spot and needed them to know, just in case. Mom burst into tears, responding more dramatically than I had wished, and promised that they would do as I asked. Further, she cried that she wanted her ashes in the same spot so that I wouldn't be alone on top of those chilly Rocky Mountains. I cringed, first wishing she'd stop, and then wondering why I couldn't have my own special spot. She didn't stop. She poked my dad's arm and said, "Bob, don't you want to be scattered here too? Don't you?" He replied that because we would all be dead, it didn't much matter, but ok, fine, he'd consent to anything in order to bring this conversation to a close.

A year before Mom, one of my cats died. In my grief, I decided to take my little companion's ashes to that same alpine lake. I wanted to symbolize that we would be together after death. I asked Mom and Dad if they wanted to come. (My sister) Carol came along too. Although we took the kitty's death seriously, we also silently knew it was a rehearsal for the future. I hiked to a rock above the lake, off the beaten trail where so many others walked. Carol and Dad followed, leaving Mom by the car because the climb would probably be too much. As I opened the canister to release the ashes, Mom cobbled up from behind, navigating the steep incline and rough rooted trail with her cane. Before I could scatter the ashes, she asked to see them. She had never seen cremains before and was curious. We all looked, noting the coarse dust and white fragments of bone which made it different from the fine fireplace ashes we were used to. I then raised the container and let the contents go, most landing with the rain that began to fall, mixing it with the ground, while some blew away in the breeze. I read a poem and we went back to the car, but not before Mom pulled a camera out of her jacket and took several pictures of the rock, the lake, and the view.