Dust and Ashes
I don’t think she had ever been taller than 5’7. I can’t be sure, we never really got around to measuring each other or anything. However I do know she was always slightly shorter than me, and I’m 5’9 so that has to mean something. Nevertheless, she clearly won’t ever reach my height now, I mean, considering.
I look down at my hands. Well less at my hands and more at the grey-speckled urn they’re holding. It really is a pretty little piece of pottery; almost too pretty for what it holds, but to each their own I suppose. Maybe urns would be better if they matched the person inside, like a carved log of wood befitting a lumberjack. What would hers be like? Something bright, probably yellow. Before I think about it too much, my thoughts move back to the dullish grey one in my palms. Somehow, I convince myself that if I open it, some sort of sunshine would spill out. I suppose if it’s really true that an entire person can be packed into one of these, surely it had to resemble them, right?
Wrong. I pull the top towards me, and when that doesn’t work I twist it counter-clockwise. It opens. There’s no blinding light. Not even a faint shimmer or the impression of glow. It’s all quite underwhelming actually, just a ziplock bag of ashes. There she is. All of it. All of her. The urge to gag, or scream, or sob, or some sordid mix of all three overcomes me. Is this really all she amounts to? How could anyone think that she lived just to turn into a three pound bag of fucking soot? Right now, though, those three pounds are heavier than the weight of the world, so I set her remnants, along with her carrier, down in front of me. My hands make the slow drag up to my face. It’s wet. I don’t know when I started crying, but I’m also not sure it matters.
I’m helpless to do anything but stare at what they made her and really? Is this it? No, I refuse to believe that something so valuable as one's life can be reduced, to or by anything at all. Years made up of days made up of hours made up of moments. Ones I hope were filled to the utmost brim with art, and laughter, and joy, and god-willing; even love. But that’s not realistic. Because yes, there must’ve been beautiful moments, but there must've also had to have been hurt, heartbreak, and every horrible undertaking that teaches us what it is to be human. So truly, how can all of those moments add up to a pile of dust? Is it the sum of its parts? Did the good outweigh the bad? Or the other way around? Does any of this truly mean something?
Unnecessarily nihilistic thoughts aside, I have learned that if life is anything, it’s unexpected. Like the Ferris Bueller quote, you know the one. “Life moves at you fast,” or whatever. Sitting here looking at this bland eleven inch urn, I’m struck with the thought that I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. All the love she held, where does it go?
But as I look at her, or what’s left of “her” at least, I try to force the cogs in my head to turn and tell me what to do. It doesn’t work very well, as all that fills my mind is the sheer injustice laid before me, a full and all-encompassing soul that was turned into a decidedly empty and finished entity. She still had such a grand story to tell. We all do. So what becomes of my story now? I suppose I am going to have to move on. I’m going to have to get up every morning to tell my story without one of the main characters. I’m not sure if I’ve started crying again, but I’m also not sure I ever stopped.
I think they will stop, eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not the day after that. But eventually. Maybe after that, in a week or so, I’ll start doing the dishes again. Maybe in a month I’ll learn how to say her name again. Maybe in a year I’ll be able to listen to her favorite song without my eyes watering. But I don’t think I’ll ever not be reminded of her in every sunset, on every bike ride, or whenever someone laughs so hard they snort, just a little bit. But that’s okay, I think. It’s okay to lose someone and learn from it, albeit slowly. And it’s okay to lose someone and learn from it and then feel guilty about learning from it. Maybe it’s even okay to forget them, just a little. Maybe it’s okay to let go. Because healing does not mean the pain never existed, it means the pain no longer controls you.
