Scatter My Ashes
I remembered that long ago she had asked that I scatter her ashes in Mississippi when she
arrived at my apartment in Georgia by Fed Ex in a heavy, warm box marked CREMAINS.
“Sign here,” the guy says as he plops the receipt on top of the box. Obediently, I scribble my
name. He puts the large box into both my outstretched arms and leaves. My sister and I are
alone. Memories of earlier visits flood my mind.
”Bill, Linda just arrived by FedEx and she’s on my hall closet floor. Can she stay in
your basement ‘til we take her to Mississippi?”
“Of course, I’m on my way.” Bill jumps to my request. He is not spooked by ashes. These are
not his first.
We do strange things with our loved ones ashes. We puzzle over what’s appropriate. A friend
tells me her friend requests her ashes be placed in Chinese takeout containers so that each
guest will hopefully take some home. My daughter takes ashes to the Eiffel Tower and the
catacombs for a friend. Bill takes his wife’s ashes on a trip to New York spooning out bits each
night by their bed. Her ashes are in a maroon velvet box in the closet he gives me after I move
in with him. Now that we are married, she stays politely in the basement.
I postpone my sister’s assignment but eventually I gather my remaining family and place her
ashes over our parents’ graves in Mississippi. But Google informs me this idea is not legal in
most states. Consequently my sister Carol, her husband Norris, Bill, and I slip into the back
gate of the cemetery where Mom and Dad are resting. We are invisible zombies, arms
extended, heads down, scanning graves.
“I found them,” Norris whispers and waves us toward him. . “ They are here under the Cedar
tree.”
Bill had placed a portion for each in a zip lock bag. We dip our hands into the bags and dribble
the ashes over the graves. The wind coats our clothes and skin with her fine mist. It’s her last
embrace as we inhale the dust, wipe our eyes, and taste the ashes. Our teeth grind grit. We
brush her presence from our dark clothes.
“Goodbye, dear Sis.”
About the Author
Nancy Worley Harrison is a senior, new wife, mom, writer living in Stone Mountain, Georgia.
This is her fifth article about mourning and dying motivated by the death of her mom, two
sisters, a close neighbor, and her new husband’s former wife.
Worleywords@gmail.com
© Nancy Worley Harrison
