The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Ashes to Bookcase.

M. couldn't stand the idea of a courier bringing his mother's remains here. He wavered about it for days until finally deciding that he would go get her himself and wanted me to go with him.

The trip was not the concern. I gladly met his request because I love Montreal, with its old world charm and Euro-feel. I love the roads which wind past laitiers and dépanneurs with their multi-coloured Christmas lights, despite my usual aversion to them. The concern was that we were on our way to collect the cindered parts of an actual human being, the vaporized fragments of a lady I had shared more than one cup of tea with. She would not be wearing her glasses, or her jacket or scarf, but would instead be in a box. She would rattle and sound like sand being tossed around inside a bucket. This bothered me.

Nonetheless, I got up bright and early and made myself ready for the strangest of all my journeys. How does one dress to go pick up the leftovers of a person? I chose a pair of black pants and an embroidered grey sweater, but the sweater had sequins just in case we needed something festive. All along the highway, M. and I remained quiet and pensive, both thinking about the unpleasantness of the whole situation, while the wee one slept in the back, unaware of where we were going and why. He even mentioned his fear about her 'ghost' coming back in the car with us, and I laughed, but I think maybe I didn't sound like I meant it. M. doesn't really believe in ghosts, or at least he hasn't until now, but there he was, driving and scrutinizing the road ahead while wondering aloud about whether or not there is the possiblity. This unnerved me.

We got to the funeral home and I immediately took the wee one to the restroom since we'd been in the car for two and half hours. I had seen a bereaved family in the office discussing arrangements and didn't want to stand there watching, so I took my time smoothing out my hair and checking my lipstick. When she and I emerged, I could not find M. who had gone wandering. I grabbed her hand and she merrily chatted about the pretty flowers and the stained glass while I tried not to notice the funereal smell of the place: candles, flowers and embalming fluid. I walked into a room with an open door and when I looked to my left, there was a casket, wide open. I saw a wax-faced woman inside, white-haired, spectacled and very much dead. Good God! Sorry madam! I sucked in my breath and cringed, hoping my little one hadn't noticed her. I turned about slowly, making silly conversation about the whereabouts of daddy, and lead her out of the room as she prattled on with me, oblivious.

M. was in the chapel, looking at the urns of some of the dearly departed. In one swift minute, he was over his fear. He said that it was kind of comforting, in a way, that these people were not in the ground somewhere, forgotten. Instead, they were neatly compacted into a pretty, or handsome, box, their pictures in front of them creating a sense of personalization between the living and the dead. When the young woman who was in charge came into the chapel to take us to her office, I was feeling slightly less strange about the whole thing too.

There, on the desk, was Isobel. Her marble urn was inside a red velvet sack, and I stared at it for about two minutes trying to make the association between the woman and the box. I could not. It did not seem real. M. signed off all the papers and told Kitty Kat that we were simply doing business for grandmother, before he lifted the deceptively heavy sack and made our way to the car. I erupted with nervous laughter when I saw that he actually buckled the urn into the backseat, patting it on the top and asking if it was comfortable. Sometimes, his humour is wonderfully irreverent.

We went to lunch at our favourite restaurant for the second time in a week, and I ate soup and salad as I miserably watched all the others gorge on waffles, croissants, ice-cream with real chocolate sauce, eggs benedict, quiche etc. M. had steak and kidney pie, which did not make me envious, but the little one's chicken fingers did. Damn this gall bladder.

When we finally got home, M. opted to place his mother on top of my bookcase in the family room. As it is where we spend most of our time, I was slightly iffy about it. She'll always be up there, when I am watching questionnable programming, when I am eating ice-cream from the carton (if ever I eat ice-cream again), atop the spot in front of the fireplace where M. and I had an evening of carnal experimentation. It is a very weird sensation, while at the same time it feels kind of normal. I almost feel badly about not feeling as creeped out as I did when he first suggested bringing her here, but I have to admit that there is still a bit of 'eeewwwww' going on in my belly.

He said that he might one day inter her with her father in Manchester, England. He doesn't know, not yet. For now, she's in the room by the fire and the Christmas tree and her name is shining from a brass plaque on the front as it catches the light from the lamp behind the couch. I would assume that this pleases her immensely, despite her lacking a physical form.

While this does not make me feel better about the concept of death, nor does it take the theme from my mind as I am always going to be reminded of it now, I do feel glad that I am not as upset about having a dead person's leftovers in my house as I was when it was initially suggested. I am not pleased by it, no, but I am not quivering in a corner and hiding my eyes either. I am impressed with myself, actually, because this would ordinarily skyrocket to the top of my ick-meter, but somehow, seeing M. so content with it makes me feel a little bit better. Where she'll go in the future, I do not know, but for now, she has a place at the top of the bookcase.

All this aside, I'm still feeling morose and a little apprehensive. Maybe now that all the unpleasant business is done I might be able for find a shred of festive feeling.