Ashes contain memories

Munchkin’s ashes are in an ivory-coloured box with a small green label. The box is on the forest green cloth on the large table in the winter garden about where she used to lie in sunbeams. This is not their final destination, but will do until a decision is reached.

Yesterday, I touched the box although she is not there any more than she was not there after the final shot and she lay on the vet’s table.

Her presence is still in the house. I find myself not putting clothes on the laundry room floor because she had a nasty habit, expecting to see her dash down the street when she knows I’m coming home and it is time to come in. Her photo comes up on my laptop peeking in the window, and I wish so much I could watch the tree shake as she makes her way down it to rush into the house and look at food dish and walk away.

Animals die. People die. 

I remember my mother’s ashes. My mother was my enemy much of my adult life, although when I was a child she did much right. I remember a friend saying when I complained about her, “She didn’t’ ruin your life and you’re stronger either because or in spite of her.” She was right. Years after her death I was able to let the good memories in, but a poem Scattering her Ashes was the start of the healing.

Clumps of sodden earth

cling to our boots.

The forest whispers,

whines.

A brook, too full

complains

falling over itself.

A bird

trills a prayer for

no more rain.

My brother, carrying the

cardboard carton,

goes first.

As he pushed through brush

he forgets to hold a branch.

It hits me like another

forty years ago

in a different wood.

We come to a meadow

with last year’s grass

engraved in mud.

He lays the carton

on the ground.

“Here.”

Inside, a plastic bag.

We each take a corner.

The wind catches the powder,

lifts and plays creating

a mini cloud

too close to earth.

I think

how much power

that ash once held,

how little power now.

Done.

we walk back

trapped

in our ancient silences.