Flowers and Ash

The three of us walk out of the church together, a self-conscious line of defense that rivals only the Ancient Greek phalanx in its desire to keep all others out. We had meant to appear friendly and understanding and grateful, but those emotions are not surfacing. We just want to get out.

“They’re trying to be nice, Beth,” my mom whispers to me, defending against unspoken complaints. “They’re just being supportive.”

“A lot of people came,” my dad qualifies for the unofficial scoreboard. “It was nice of them all to come out.”

We reach the limo only after a parade of handshakes and hugs have been dealt out. I rip open the door hastily and collapse upon slippery leather cushions.

“You doing okay?” my mom asks, tears threatening to boil over again.

“Yeah, of course. It’s you I’m worried about,” I reply.

What disturbs me is that I am unsure if my declaration is even sincere. I feel a bizarre mixture of apathy and annoyance towards this whole day.

Sincere or not, it has the semi-desired effect on my mom. She holds onto my arm and weeps. I know it’s good for her.

My dad looks out the window, trying to ignore the awkward display of emotion before him.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” our limo driver remarks, a person whose existance had not even made a blip on my radar until this cliched outburst.

This causes another roadblock in our family’s journey to being officially over with this day. Someone has to say something. Someone needs to make an equally cliched reply in order to preserve the aura of properness that we have set up for ourselves.

My dad rises to the challenge.

“Thank you,” he manages. “That’s very nice of you to say.”

“I remember when my mom passed away,” the driver continues in what I shockingly realize is an attempt to relate with us. “It was very difficult on our family. It wasn’t until the end of the day, when we all gathered around a bottle of wine, that we were able to relax. And you know, the best part is we all knew Mom would’ve really liked that - all of us drinking and laughing, even getting a little drunk, in her memory.”

The three of us chuckle along with our Dr. Phil limo driver. None of us find it funny, but we think it will make him feel more comfortable if we appear to enjoy his anecdote. The fact that none of us drink alcohol only increases the very un-funny nature of this poor man’s story.

“If it would help you relax, there’s a few drinks in the cabinent there,” our driver tells us, breaking about a dozen rules of decorum in the rule book of limo etiquette that I have just imagined. “Please, help yourselves.”

This causes more unnecessary awkwardness. For one of the first times, I actually feel embarassed that I do not drink. Three years of college life and it’s a funeral that brings this out in me.

“Thanks, but we actually don’t drink,” my dad says.

We all chuckle nervously. This time the limo driver joins in.

My mom clutches my hand. I turn to meet her gaze, but she is looking away. Her jaw is clenched tightly, mouth reduced to a slender line of pink. I don’t think she even notices that her hand has taken a hold of mine.

“What were you talking about with the pastor before we left?” my dad asks my mom.

The grip on my hand tightens.

“He wanted to know which one of us was going to spread the ashes,” she replies, voice taunt, “Dan or I.”

My dad and I look at each other. We’re both bad at this sort of stuff, yet we mask it differently. My dad withdraws, I lean in.

“What did you decide?” I ask.

“Dan wants me to do it. Since I’m older . . . or something. He said he just can’t.”

“Are you sure you’re okay with doing it?”

“Yeah, of course. Of course, I am.”

She tries to pass off a pained expression as a smile, but it’s not fooling any one. She turns away to look out the window. The gates of cemetary are visible a few blocks away.

I feel a need to connect, to somehow put forth all the love I have for her into a single gesture, but I am ignorant as to how one goes about such a motion. My hands twitch beside me, sweaty palms against dry leather.

My dad coughs. The sound is abrasive against the silence.

The gravel crunches and slides beneath the tires as we roll into the cemetary. The other cars are already here. Men and women dressed in the somber shades of shadows await our arrival.

As soon as we’re parked, our faithful driver bounds around the vehicle in order to open the door with as much panache and flair as a country butler.

I think my grandmother would have liked this man.

There are more handshakes and hugs, mostly with the same people, before we can begin walking down the strange little path that meanders beyond the measured rows of tombstones.

I wish we were here to bury my grandmother. I do not like the idea of ashes, least of all spreading them upon a patch of dirt that may be tended or forgotten as the years dictate. It strikes me as unnatural. I cannot relate the person that I once knew with a pile of glorified dust.

There are only twenty or so of us here at the cemetary, immediate family and a few close friends. As we begin going down the path, my mom moves to walk beside me and her hand finds mine.

I wait to see if she will say anything before I force myself to come up with an appropriate subject. I rack my brain as the silence lengthens but find no helpful topics.

In my mind, I know how such a situation should go. I can see the tangible connections I should be forming with my family as we weather this tragedy. Looking back on this day, we would be proud of how we strengthened our relationships with one another amidst a backdrop of sorrow.

Instead, I am struck with the intense emptiness of this entire ritual. There is nothing here for any of us. We are all just acting our parts with as much decorum as we can muster until the hour that we can drive away and never look back.

Sadness is a place, not an emotion.

The pastor is leading us further and further down the path. We have passed the pale tombstones now. Above us there is a canopy of cheerful trees and puffy clouds of cotton. We are in some sort of garden.

The other people are milling about now, which strikes me as odd. I don’t know what we’re all waiting for, but apparently it isn’t here yet.

My mom is still beside me. She leans in, her hand warming mine with its clammy touch.

“Beth, your grandma and I came out here a few months ago. She wanted me to see this place. Approve of it, you know.”

“It’s nice,” I say.

I do not mention that “nice” is a far cry from final resting place.

I can tell I am not really connecting very well with my mom. Or my dad. Or anyone for that matter. Actually, if you get right down to it, I’m not connecting with this entire day. I feel jaded and cynical. Everything is just another something for me to comment on. I’m building up walls around my emotions. I can see it, but I am powerless to prevent it.

I wonder if other people deal with death better than myself. It seems more than likely that there are better alternatives. 

The place is nice, though. And I mean it. There is a little stone wall that encloses a miniature garden of blooming beauties, and a fountain that’s tinkling water echoes melodiously throughout the quiet glenn.

Of course, I am not sure where my grandmother is supposed to fit into all of this, but I assume someone else does.

The pastor clears his throat, and I see that, unconsciously or otherwise, all of us have gathered in a slight semi-circle around him.

“Sheila picked out this place herself,” he begins, already referring to a crumpled sheet of notes in his left hand, “It was her hope that her loved ones could visit her here and be comforted by the tranquil beauty.”

I feel a slight tremor of unexpected emotion. It is almost as if, against all perceivable reason, my grandma is still alive in my mind. Being reminded that visiting her will now consist of sitting in a garden alongside a pile of ash strikes a chord within the well-defended walls of my emotional core. I do not like the feeling.

“Cindy and Dan, will you come forward,” the pastor says.

I notice, for the first time, that the pastor is holding something within his hand. I feel as if a claw has grabbed tight of my heart. He is holding a very small bag.

My mom squeezes my hand one final time and then lets go. The pastor, my mom, and her brother stand together, motionless, around the ashes of my grandmother.

The trees are shading the garden, but I move to place my sunglasses over my eyes. I need this tangible layer of protection between my inner turmoil and the outside world. My eyes have glazed over, and I do not dare to blink. My body is shaking, probably not enough to be perceptible to anyone else, but I feel it. It is as if an earthquake is tearing through my bones, a seismic hand that has grabbed ahold of my spine and rattled me to my core.

Part of me acknowledges the dramatic nature of my reaction to seeing the little red bag of ashes. I try, in an effort to stabilize my emotions, to think about all the people all over the world who are dealing with bigger tragedies. I ponder their sorrow and consider, in comparison, the relative normalacy of my current ordeal.

My grandma was seventy-eight when she passed away. She had been diagnosed with cancer over seven years ago. By any measure, she had lived a full life and had been lucky to survive the cancer as long as she did. When she had first been diagnosed she told my mom that all she wanted was to see her grandkids graduate from high school. She even tried to bargain with God, telling him that she could die happy as long as she made it to that day.

Well, she did make it. And a few more years on top of that, too. It didn’t help, though, when the cancer had returned and taken a turn for the worse, that she then wished she could just make it to our college graduation, make it to our weddings, make it to see her great-grandchildren . . .

She did not make it that long.

As I stand here, suspended in this endless moment of tragedy as we, the bystanders, watch my mother and her brother say good-bye to my grandmother for the final time, I find it hard to comprehend how normal this is, in the grand scheme of things. Everyone dies, especially grandparents. There is nothing unique or special about the wild tides of emotions that are flinging me about. This is normal.

I feel a light touch on my shoulder and barely resist flinching. I turn to look. My dad, staring ever forward, has placed a hand on my shoulder. He is trying to comfort me in his own awkward way.

My heart breaks even more at this. I can feel my carefully constructed walls searching desperately for emergency supports. My stoic father is reaching out even when I could not.

I lean into him, bringing back childhood memories of cherished daddy-daughter days. His hand clutches my shoulder with renewed confidence. Together we watch my mother, each of us unable to imagine the emotions she is experiencing.

They are talking to each other now. I see my mom’s brother jerk his head to the side as he speaks, but I cannot hear the words. My mom appears to deflate, and I wonder why. Then I see the pastor and my mom’s brother withdraw. They leave my mom alone, the center point of our little semi-circle. She is holding the bag of ashes.

I want to run to her, to comfort her. Her head is bowed, and she looks defeated, a weary victim of sorrow and loss that can no longer bear the weight of this tragedy. I hate myself for not fully being there for her before. I feel like I have let her down, led her to this precipise to fall alone.

She moves suddenly. She turns her back on the rest of us and faces the garden wall. There is a small path of grass and flowers awaiting my grandmother’s ashes. My mother  opens the bag and takes a deep breath. I can feel the rest of us holding our breath as well.

She dips a tentative hand inside the bag and withdraws a handful of ashes. She spreads them out, letting them fall between the petals. We all exhale.

An eerie silence accompanies the scene. My mom ever so slowly reaches back into the bag. This time, with her hands full, she takes her time spreading out the ash. It is almost as if she is caressing the flowers, blending together the serenity of that place with the remains of her mother. She does not touch the plants as if they were wild things, but as if they were truly a loved one – as if they were my grandmother herself.

I am in awe of this intense display of emotion and love. My overly wrought nerves do not know how to react. I feel stripped of all walls and barriers, a mere vessel of passing emotions. I just stand there, dumb-founded, watching one of the most beautiful and honest scenes of my entire life.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a blur of movement. I turn my head slightly, waiting to catch it again.

A few moments later it happens, and I see it. My dad’s hand darts up to his face, wiping away a mysterious something from beneath the protection of his sunglasses.

I have never seen my dad cry until this moment.

I think he sees me watching him, but, unexpectedly, he does not appear self-conscious. He leans in, preparing to whisper into my ear.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, “how your mom is spreading the ashes. It’s so . . . gentle and loving. So tender.”

I do not think I have ever or will ever hear my dad utter such words together. It is a milestone in his use of “gushy” vocabulary.

My dad recovers quickly, however.

“I mean, if it had been me, I would have just tossed them out there. You know, get it out of the way. Chuck ‘em and be done with it.”

He sees me struggling to keep from laughing, and he smiles happily.

When she is finally done, the pastor returns and says a quick prayer. After the “amen”, my mom rushes into the open embrace of my dad and I.

People are watching. There is probably some aspect of decorum that could be observed at this point. We don’t observe it.

My mom is balling, and I can’t wipe the tears from my eyes fast enough. My dad presides over the proceedings, a tall anchor holding onto his family, while his hand keeps brushing away a mysterious something from his cheek.

We smile at each other, when all the tears have been shed. We find amusement in the cliched nature of our ordeal and subsequent closure. 

Later, after we have driven home and casted off our sad clothes, we sit upon the couch and pop in a movie.

I do not pay attention much. My mind is elsewhere. I am thinking about my grandma, about time, and about love.

I contemplate simple things. I remember one of the last times my grandma clasped my hand in hers, just like my mom had done so many times today. She had whispered, “I love you, sweetie”, and fallen back asleep. There is nothing earth-shakingly profound about this memory, but I cherish it as I sit between my mom and dad. 

I conclude that happiness is neither a place or an emotion. Happiness is the father who puts a tentative arm around his daughter’s shaking shoulder. It is the mother who cannot stop clutching her daughter’s hand in the midst of tragedy. Happiness is the grandmother who never tired of saying, “I love you.”

I cozy up within my bundle of blankets and love. I know part of me is still raw and broken. My family and I will undoubtably live with the heartbreaking absense of my grandmother for months and years to come. I do not know when, if ever, the emptiness of my heart will be filled. I can feel its tangible presense, a black hole of emotion that sits nestled between all other feelings.

For now, though, I choose to fill my heart with memories. There is too much love in my past and too much love in my present to let it waste away upon sorrow and regret.

I can feel my eyelids drooping, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with me. The sounds on the televsion become indistinct and distant.

I sense a blanket gently being pulled over my bare arms. A soft kiss is placed on my forehead, and my hand is momentarily grasped in a warm and loving embrace.

As I drift off, an image floats into my consciousness. It is of two pale and shaking hands, working slowly amidst a bed of lovely flowers.

I exhale and drift to sleep.