Ashes to Ashes

When my dad died, we followed his wishes concerning his 'funeral' and burial. That is, we did not have an actual funeral - you know, where you have a visitation followed by a service where the family actually gets closure. No, his wife opted to have a 'memorial' service - held at his local yacht club. She didn't want any flowers or memorials - she didn't want a big 'to do' - and she said it was what dad wanted. I'm not so sure.

Of course I didn't follow the rules - I showed up with a huge arrangement of pink flowers and roses (the same flowers my daddy used to bring me occasionally) with a simple card attached that said "I Love You Daddy." I stuck it on the table at the entrance to the yacht club for everyone to see - much to dad's widow's dismay.

The 'service' entailed people boozing it up and then coming up to a podium set in the corner of the room telling funny stories about dad. Oh, that was nice and all - but was not the closure I wanted or needed - or how I felt we should honor my dad's memory.

But nobody asked me - I was the discounted younger daughter that moved to South Carolina and was never heard from again - at least that is what my dad's widow and my brother would have you think.

Anyway, following the 'service' there was a big lunch - people ate and drank - and it was nice and all. A few days later, we drove to the Tri-Cities, my 'hometown'. Dad had requested that when he passed away that he be cremated, and his ashes scattered at the confluence of the Columbia and Snake Rivers - his favorite place to anchor our old boat, tie up to friends' boats, and wile away the hot summer afternoons.

We did - it was hot that day. Excrutiatingly hot. My brother drove his boat, and he along with his best childhood friend, my dad's widow, and I all rode along with him. D and A (who was 11 months old at the time) did not get to attend. They had to stay back at the hotel. No one thought ahead to try and find a life-jacket small enough for an 11-month old, and I was too worried about her boating without one.

My dad's widow had the honors of actually scattering the ashes off the end of the boat. Actually, it was more like dumping. She opened up the box, pulled out the plastic bag, and dumped all five pounds of ashes in the river - very unceremoniously I might add.

I had removed the petals from the arrangement I insisted on bringing to the memorial 'service' and scattered them on top of his ashes. As a final gesture, I floated the "I Love You Daddy" card on top.

Then we motored away.

I haven't been back since.

I realized this gray drizzly morning as I was driving the kids to daycare that I think part of my seemingly endless grieving is that 1) I had no real closure - no real funeral in my mind to say goodbye and 2) there is no grave where I can visit my dad. I can't even visit the rivers where his ashes were scattered. (Okay, maybe we can but not easily - as the Tri-Cities, WA is not exactly convenient to get to.) And I hate that. I want to go back, sit by my dad's grave - talk to him, tell him what's been going on - feel close to him. I feel like I'm a million miles away. Like maybe, somehow, I am that daughter who moved too far away and didn't matter anymore.