A Long Overdue Walk in the Woods

While my mom was in her prolonged journey towards death, she verbalized wishes to be cremated and have her ashes spread among nature’s wonder of big trees. We promised to honor her wish. A few weeks after her funeral, I brought the velvet encased box of ashes into my house and placed them in my bookshelf amidst the multitude of my kids’ favorite children’s books. I reconciled her awkward “resting place” because she loved to read, and her favorite place was the library. My siblings and I intended to create the right moment to spread her ashes, and then life derailed us.

My brother, Neil unexpectedly and tragically died. Months later, my nephew, Conor suffered a catastrophic accident. Subsequent years would be defined by the reconcile my brother’s hopeless passing with my nephew’s hopeful recovery. Simultaneous. Two conflicting realities.

In the meantime, life endured. My family celebrated marriages, went to volleyball tournaments, welcomed grandchildren and did laundry. We navigated struggles, did dishes and submerged ourselves in the ordinary of life. Soon, I forgot about my mom’s earthly remnants. I walked by  my bookshelf a multitude of times every day and, quite honestly, forgot she was there.

And then, my Dad died. On his way to live forever, he just didn’t. His ashes, shortly thereafter, came to rest alongside my mom in the bookshelf, in between Dr. Seuss and Eric Carle.

Having both parents in a box, wrapped in red velvet resting together in my den was weird, but even so, it took a while for my brother, sister and I to do anything about it. Maybe because of our reluctance to own our new positions as family “elders,” we ignored the reality tucked among my kids’ favorite childhood books. The “right time” and “perfect moment” remained in in the realm of “tomorrows” for a long time.

After years of saying, “we need to,” or “let’s get together,” with the intention of spreading our parents’ ashes, we decided, on a whim, to bring them to their final resting place. With about 3 hours’ notice, we met at a tree lined path my mom loved. The three of us walked together experiencing irreverence and devotion at the same time; doubled over with laughter followed by space allowing the soft fall of tears. Never have birds sounded so symphonic.

We grieved the unique and imperfect brand of love from both our parents, feeling enriched by the pain and delight woven into our whole big family story. Summoning memories scratched eternally-tender scars, yet those same memories emboldened the blocks of granite-like love we’ve built our hearts upon. Both at the same time.

As we returned to our cars, my siblings and I acknowledged the fact it took so long to bring our mom’s wishes to fruition. But, we also knew she would have understood the delay. She would have reassured us she was quite happy among the books while encouraging us to double down in the intersections of life where hope is both evident and illusive. She knew all too well the coexistence of hardship and joy that are encased within the frame of living.

I have to say, in a strange way, I’ve had a bit of a delayed emotional reaction to the fact that my parents are no longer “with me.” Sounds a bit macabre. I’m not one of those who choose to place the ash filled urn on my fireplace mantle, but I guess I am one of those who, instead, puts the velvet encased box in my den bookcase. Either way, it was way past time to let them go. I’m grateful for my brother and sister who continue to walk with me as our family story continues the weave of belly-aching laughter with the release of tears; together, just like us.