EVERY TIME THE holidays come around I am reminded that one of these days I simply have to do something with my mother’s ashes. It’s been more than twenty years since she died. This length of stay out of the grave, or water or air, is not that startling. My father’s ashes have been in a closet at my sister’s house for more than 30 years, and though I tell myself that the right ritual will present itself, even the turn of the century came and went without inspiring an interment.
My mother was in her 40s when she displayed the first signs of Alzheimer’s disease. She was carefully monitored in life and autopsied at death. The autopsy was pre-arranged, as was the transfer of the body to a crematorium in Manhattan, about three hours from where I live. I think the name of the place was Sal’s.
My mother died the day after Thanksgiving. Despite the holiday I called the crematorium and was put right through to Sal, the owner, who said all the right things: He was sorry for my loss, there was no reason to attend the cremation and that he took checks.
After the check cleared, he said, he’d send them.
“Send what?” I asked.
“The remains.”
“Send them?”
“In the mail,” he said. Federal Express, it seems, does not take human remains.
Sal was very convincing. More so, 10 days later, when my check bounced.
For whatever the subliminal and not-so-subliminal reasons a woman might have for bouncing a check to Sal’s Lower East Side Crematorium, it did–or rather, I should say, I did bounce it. And while I’d like to say that my bookkeeping got undone in the planning of a funeral and burial, we know that’s not true.
I overnighted a money order and apologized profusely to Sal on the phone and in writing. I said I was sorry again, over the phone, 10 days later, when the ashes still hadn’t shown up. And, in another two weeks’ time, when, still, the package hadn’t come.
Then, on Christmas Eve, the phone rang. It was the nice lady at my pint-size rural post office.
“I have a package for you,” she said cheerily.
It wasn’t surprising, considering the season. But I knew better.
“I’ll be right down,” I said.
The postmistress was wearing a Santa hat. That helped. There in her hands was a brown paper package that easily could have contained a large can of coffee. “It’s heavy,” she said, smiling.
She and I saw each other nearly every day, but she didn’t know about the death. The life my mother had wanted had been over years before and only my friends knew she had finally died.
So the postmistress stood there in her hat, displaying her best holiday cheer, a plate of cookies at her elbow, behind a counter cross-gartered with a ribbon like a big, wrapped gift. I started to sweat right about the time she put the package to her ear and started to shake it.
“I hope it’s not broken,” she said, as the contents sifted back and forth.
“Let’s see who it’s from,” I said, an octave higher than my usual speaking voice, as I gently lowered it from her ear to the counter.
Sal had been good enough to use his first and last name, and not that of his business. That was a gift.
“Ooh,” she said, “Someone in New York City. You know him?”
I eased the package from her hands into mine, and then, when it was securely against my heart, I was able to feel how to make the panic stop and allow the private cleanup work of grief to begin.
“It’s from Uncle Sal,” I said. “On my mother’s side.”
Does my mother live in New York City, too?
“No,” I said, not looking down at the box between us. “She died some time ago.”
“I’m sorry, “ she said. “What do you think it is?” she asked, beaming back at the box.
“Same thing he always sends.” I said. “Bulbs.” I gave the box a tender shake. “Packed in sand. Lovely flowers you start indoors in winter.” And I backed away from the counter, cradling the box in my arms, saying, “Happy holidays.”
From time to time I am running the copy from essays I’ve read on NPR’s All Things Considered. This is one of those.
Andrea Heitzman says
Marion,
It is ten years since my mum passed away. I miss her dearly, especially now. She was my BFF. I could call her at anytime, even from thousands of miles overseas. She would listen..just listen. I think ot the times I took her forgranted.
The other day, I was clearing out my closet of clothes I wanted to donate to Goodwill, when I came across a pink sweater that had belonged to mum. I held it closed to my chest, and I took in a short breath…I could smell her cologne…simple but sweet. I was overcome with grief. I feel to the floor, sobbig uncontrollably. I needed her words of encouragement, her arms wrapped around me. reassuring me that “it will be fine honey”.
My mum was buried next to my father in Indianapolis, Indiana. I find myself thinking who is taking care of the site. Then I realized that mum’s spirit lives within me, I see it when I look into the mirror …my wrinkles are her wrinkles, and I smile.
marion says
“My wrinkles are her wrinkles.” Oh my. I am laughing through my tears. Just lovely. Thank you, Andrea. I do believe your mother lives within you, which is a great place to write from it seems, yes?
Myrna says
I was mad at my Dad when he died, but I was at peace with my state of mind. I felt justified and righteous in my decision to stand my ground and keep my boundaries regarding his drinking and our relationship. I loved him and hated him, which caused me no end of confusion when he passed. I was mourning his death, but why, if he was such a bastard in life? Each of my siblings took turns saying something about my Dad at his memorial service, but I refused to speak, because I felt it was all lies and I wasn’t going to be a hypocrite. I wanted to grieve with my siblings, but I mostly found myself alone. When we arrived for my Dad’s burial, I carried his ashes into the house, my whole life flashing before me. I felt that somehow, I had always carried my Dad.
marion says
Hi, Myrna. I love the fascinating limning of the line between being mad and being at peace. What a marvelous place to write from. Wonderful. Thank you for sharing this.
Regina Gravante says
Marion,
When reading your posts I found myself relating to you and everything that you experiencing at the time that these life events were taking place. You see, my dad died some years ago and although I loved him and mourned his loss, I barely knew who he was. My dad, had issues with drugs, alcohol, woman and any other thing that he could be addicted to. He had an Addictive type personality and although he loved us the best way that he knew how, he was sick and absent more than he was present in our lives. In the end his lifestyle finally got the best of him. He contracted HIV which after many years turned into AIDS and died in Baltimore, Maryland away from us. I guess the saving grace about my father’s life was a couple days before his death he had excepted Christ into his life, asking his to forgive him for all that he had done and saying that he believed that Jesus died on the cross for him. I also relate to your story because three years ago, my mom was given four to twelve month to live. She was diagnosed with stage four Lung cancer. Well, by the grace of God, three years later; she is still here. Unlike your story, my mom and I were not close while I was growing up. My mom was Physically abusive but after she was diagnosed with stage four Lung ; everything changed. Now I can say that my mom is my best friend and when I need advice, she always know exactly what to say. I am grateful that she is still with us in the land of the living but when she goes on we will all miss her dearly.
marion says
Dear Regina,
Thanks for being in touch.
My advice is to write your tale and see what you learn from it.
I think you’ll be amazed.
Best,
Marion
marion says
Dear Regina,
Thank you for your honesty and your warmth.
Both are powerful tools. Use them well.
Best,
Marion