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 nearly 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.”
No related posts.
First time here? Here's the idea: 
{ 20 comments… read them below or add one }
Marion, Thanks for this story. We had my father in the closet at his brother’s house for 10 years, and then I had my brother in our closet for more than 10 years – so glad someone else had issues with ashes.
I’m impressed you can even talk about the ashes….
I kept a paper grocery sack stuffed with the nonessential paper trail of my father’s last 8 years of life. It was not until I eventually cleaned out the room “his” sack reigned over the corner of – some 9-10 years later, that I could bring myself to sort through and recycle those pages.
When I took the papers out to the garage I felt I should recite a poem, offer a prayer, sing a song, do something to acknowledge one final piece of my father’s puzzle being put into context. Even if that context was a plastic recycling bin.
That said, my father was not the sentimental type. I have a sneaking suspicion he would have thoroughly enjoyed my distinct discomfort at finally parting with his ancient utility bills and magazine renewal notices.
What a wonderful story! Thankfully, all I have are my dogs ashes to deal with — she’s been in a gift bag for 2 years now.
Marion, thank you for the story. The holiday details, and how they reveal good, bad and ugly, are wonderful. As always, a pure pleasure to read.
Dear Marion, there is so much plaintiveness here. Happy holidays, indeed. My mother’s best friend (and all of our favorite) died on my sister’s birthday. It’s more than 10 years now but it still saddens the day. I love that your response to the postmistress was one about blooms in winter. My best to you and Margaret. ~Lynn
I have about two salty, gritty teaspoons of her in a clear plastic bag that is stored inside of a tiny, white-blonde, woven straw lidded basket.
I had planned to set the ashes free a number of times: I was going to add them to my vegetable bed that April. I was going to float them out in the strange, steaming, rainbow-colored waters of Yellowstone’s geothermal springs, one of her favorite places. Then I was going to bury then in the blooming dahlia garden the night before I was to be married on that spot.
But I’ve still got them. Not sure what she would think of it. To me, my keeping them matters and it doesn’t. Like her death, now five years gone, the ashes are heavy and light at the same time.
Reading this took my breath away.
Wishing you a peace filled holiday.
And may I extend thanks for giving us these words.
Beautiful story. But I have a question. How did you determine who got Dad and who got Mom?
Oh boy! Does this strike home! My husband’s ashes are still on my closet shelf, despite the terrible feng shui implications! It’s strangely reassuring to discover that others have similar difficulties disposing with the remaining remains. You brought us back vividly to the place you were in that Post Office. I can picture the irony of the cheeriness and your wit in dealing with it. Ah the humanity!
Hello, Mary Kate, and welcome back to TSP. This does my heart such good. Thank you. I am just the eeensiest bit wiggly on this topic, but hearing that you, too, had an ashes issues makes that wiggly feeling melt away. Happy holidays, indeed.
Hi there, Texas Deb, and welcome back to TSP. Remains come in all forms, don’t they? I love this sisterhood we are making here of what remains held sway in our lives. Thanks for bringing your tale here. I’m beginning to think there is a real collection here amid these tales. Happy holidays, sister.
Hi, Jill. A gift bag. But of course. Oh, we have dog ashes, too. I keep them separate from my mother’s which, of course, I should, though I’m hard-pressed to find who writes those rules, you know? Thank you for sharing your tale. And happy holidays to you.
Hi, Marilyn. We are always grateful to read you here at TSP, since we know you are busy simmering ’til done. Ah, yes, those holidays and their spectrum of emotion. Thank you for the kind words. We wish you the happiest of holidays, and hope you cook up something you adore.
Dear Lynn: Many thanks for the kind words, as well as for the remembrance of your mother’s best friend. Please come back soon for more. Happy holidays to you.
Dear Joely. Thank you for this perfectly poetic response. Beautiful to behold, it is also profound as well as provocative. Happy holidays, sister. Your words are always welcome here.
Hi, Deb: You are most welcome. The sisterhood we offer to one another with words alone continues to astonish me. Happy holidays to you. Enjoy the peace.
Hello, Sandy. Oh, that question. It’s one for the books, it is. My sister, how shall we say, preferred our father. That’s the quick answer. The long answer is the “She Said, She Said” of our lives. Happy holidays, and keep asking those questions.
Hello, Miriam, and welcome back to TSP. Feng shui, indeed. I love that, as well as your generous offer to tell us about your husband’s ashes. Seems this is a topic that reverberates with many. How fascinating. Happy holidays to you. Please come back soon.
Hello Marion, Thank you so much for all the inspiring tips for memoirs. Your story about your mother’s ashes is great and brought back memories of the post office down the road from our house and what a thrill it was for the P.O. staff when they had that mystery parcel to pass on. I went to my cousins wake in October which was a very difficult one; I’ve actually started writing a small memoir on the special relationship that my sister Joan and I shared with my cousin Peter. At his wake, his wife had set up a bench for kneeling, with a table in front of it that held a container with his ashes, covered with a pale satin square of fabric and crowned with his large framed sunglasses. Because he never , ever took them off. Marion, thank you again for re-igniting my pilot light with all of your thought provoking writing. Ann
Hi, Ann. Thank you for the kind words. If I have ignited a pilot light, I am delighted, indeed. How fabulous. And thank you for the image of Peter and his sunglasses. It’s unforgettable. Write on, woman, and let us see what you’re up to.
Now I don’t feel so bad about having my Dad’s ashes in my closet. I don’t tell people, they might find it odd. But somehow, it is kind of comforting. We looked into different options, as we also have the ashes from his parents (my brother has those), but spending thousands and thousands of dollars didn’t jive with my father’s frugality. I think he would be horrified, as he did tell us to dump him in the trash (his wacky sense of humor). But he did have a point. What is important are the memories of him, not some urn or statue or headstone in a cemetery. I would love to find some way to honor his memory, but still looking for the right time and place.
Hello, Laurie. And welcome to TSP, where we love these ashes stories. This is divine, with so much honest detail in such a short space. Lovely and provocative. Thank you for sharing it. Write on, sister. And come back soon.
Oh, thank you for sharing this…
I have 3 little urns sitting in our office; they move with us everywhere. It is strangely reassuring — our dead pets are still a part of our lives. Heavy and light.
My father has already told me that he wants his ashes scattered at sea (he spent 6 years in the merchant marine, and spent his working life designing tankers and icebreakers), but… I already know that I will not be able to let him go. I never want to feel him slip through my fingers.
My web-friend, Sweet Salty Kate, wrote beautifully about letting the ashes of her baby go; it haunts me to this day. (she is an amazing writer, and has just had her first book, a children’s book, published, so I encourage everyone to check her our):
http://www.sweetsalty.com/sweetsalty/2007/7/9/mirror-world.html
http://www.sweetsalty.com/sweetsalty/2008/6/16/onward-onward.html
http://www.sweetsalty.com/sweetsalty/2007/9/24/at-odds-in-a-spritely-woodland.html
Tomorrow would have been my mother’s birthday, the timing of which always meant tandem feasts/celebrations around Thanksgiving. First she made the pies, then we kids–well, usually my sister-in-law– made the chocolate cake (always involving a new rendition every year!). Mom died three years ago and we put her ashes in the Arno on a warm July night last year; Florence was her favorite place on earth. I think we were lucky to have known where she’d want to be–and to be able to manage the trip. I had some anxiety about transporting Mom in the bottom of my suitcase in this post 9-11 world, but miraculously, no one said a word (or lost my luggage!).
Dad, who died two years ago, also found the perfect berth…we drifted his ashes into San Francisco Bay, just outside the Golden Gate, from the deck of the Jeremiah O’Brien, a restored WWII Liberty ship once used by the Merchant Marine. My Dad had served on similar ships in the North Atlantic and his love of those adventures–and of the Jeremiah, which he helped restore–made it the obvious resting place for him. The Jeremiah takes an annual memorial cruise around the Bay to honor its lost Merchant Marines…a sad and fitting end for these lost old sailors.
These are perhaps odd things to be thankful for, but it pleases me to think that my parents would have liked these choice. And I believe that if there is somewhere else your folks wants to be, it will become apparent to you in due course. So rest easy–as your mother doubtless does.
Tougher for me is finding a new Thanksgiving tradition…
Hi, Martha. Oh, how lovely of you to share with us the story of your mother’s and father’s ashes. How absolutely generous, though not nearly as generous as your kind suggestion to me that one of these days that final resting spots will reveal themselves. So, what did you do for a new Thanksgiving tradition, I wonder? We would love to know. Please come back soon and tell us.
Hi, Monika: Yes, those pet urns. Oh yes. And how brave of you to tell us how hard you will resist letting our father go. I understand, I do. But thanks most for the intro to your web-friend Sweet Salty Kate. You are right that all of us should check out her writing. Just wonderful. Please come back soon for more.
We buried my father in March of this year. Piece by piece, his belongings are being given away, slowly, by my mother. “Do you think one of the boys could use this?” she asks. “Sure mom, I think they could”. A garden hat for me, slippers for my husband. Each item infinitely precious just because it was my Dad’s. I can’t imagine having to give HIM away. So, I can understand why you would still have your mother’s ashes with you and think it the most natural thing on earth.
Hello, Tammy. What a breathtaking idea, that piece by piece his belonging are being given away. This is a perfect memoir in miniature. Just lovely; touching and true. Thank you for sharing it with us. Thanks, too, for the understanding about the ashes. It’s a tough one, I admit it. Please come back son.