GRIEVING

It's Not As Easy To Spread Someone's Ashes As You Think

Mum and I got into a pickle

I had never had to deal with someone's ashes before and had no idea what to expect or to do.

My mum got a call from the Funeral Parlour asking us to collect my Dad's ashes. He died of cancer, which quickly took his life at 72.

Dad's wishes were to be cremated and spread around, not to be buried. He was adamant that he didn't want a place people had to go to, maintain, or keep tidy.

It was important to him, he didn’t want any fuss.

Mum is quite different. When she dies, she will join her Mum and Dad in an ancient churchyard in the family plot.

Every Christmas, birthday and on important anniversaries, she visits their grave with a modest bunch of flowers and complains about the overgrowth and rubbish littering the site. It gives her something to do and a place to hold her memories fresh.

So when we picked up the ashes, I was immediately taken by surprise. I'd seen pictures of a dainty urn being held aloft and families releasing the ashes into the wind in their favourite place. This is what I envisioned. That is what is in the movies.

When we were presented with a 5-litre size plastic tub heavy with my Dad's ashes, we realised this wouldn't be an easy feat.

I asked Mum what she had thought about doing with them and what did Dad want? She seemed a little vague, unprepared to make decisions, so the ashes sat in the car boot, heavily weighing on our minds for a few days.

A few days later, we set out in the car. Mum had decided the best place for the ashes to be scattered was on his parents' grave.

Then she could visit the grave regularly and remember him there.

I'm pretty sure my Dad didn't want to be in a specific location, but for Mum, it was necessary. Perhaps the needs of people left behind matter more than the one who has passed.

At the graveyard, we made our way to the family plot. It wasn't a very inspiring graveyard, flat with simple headstones in rows, grey on a very grey day. I'm not sure why it bothered us, but we were happy that no one was around. We weren’t sure if we needed permission, but we opened the container to spread the ashes on the grave.

We hadn't discussed how this was going to happen. We never did talk much about important things, and the silence hung heavy between us.

Mum had imagined she would scatter the ashes, gently allowing them to settle and rest in the cracks around the grave. This worked for a while, but then we realised there were too many ashes. Panic was setting in. Where were we going to put them all? We looked around, hoping that no one was watching our confusion.

At the base of the headstone was a vase with some old dead flowers. I pulled it out and found a deep hole underneath, where we unceremoniously poured the remainder of my Dad's ashes—hidden out of sight, with his parents somewhere in the deep dark space.

The deed was done. Mum was relieved to get it out of the way, and we could return to the car, getting rid of the container in a bin nearby. With the covert operation now concluded, we scurried out with a guilty conscience.

We had forgotten to say a few words or reflect with a moment of silence.

Myself, I have difficulty connecting these ashes with the person that was my Dad. It's not how and where I visualise him. I'm glad Mum has her way of remembering him, but I won't revisit the graveyard.

I will be scattered properly, from the end of a jetty into the sea, to swim with the dolphins or thrown into the wind on a hillside, hiking for eternity in wide open spaces.