Childhood's End?

The past several days, I've bitched and bitched about the tortoise-like speed with which the funeral home has been going at in getting me the death certificates and my father's ashes. I almost feel like they could have taken longer.

I went down there a little while ago and, after seeing the office empty, found a guy on his lunch break. After searching for a short time, he found everything and handed me a short stack of papers and a box. The box was heavier than I expected - probably around 15 lbs. Walking down the hall to the exit, I felt a great sense of relief. No more calls from them asking for my dad's highest level of education and no more we'll-call-you-tomorrows. Walking out the door, it suddenly dawned on me in a meaningful way that I held what was left of my father's body in my arms. I was walking over to his truck to drive back to his house. Tears welled in my eyes as I sauntered back to the parking lot. Hopping into the cab, I placed the box on the seat next to me very carefully, very gently. I started the engine and took off down the street.

Holding back the tears, I made my way to the coffeehouse so I could get some decent java instead of the Folgers I've been torturing myself with the past few days. Walking in, a pretty blonde greeted me. And she actually had hips. I wished that I could have stayed as there was no one else there so I could have tried to weave my magic on her but my mind and heart were elsewhere. So I got back into the truck an executed a really half-assed Y manoeuvre to get out of the small parking lot. Turning back out onto the street, my brain made the fatal mistake of deciding to play Steve Earle's "Goodbye" to itself. But this was Emmylou Harris' version - my father loved Emmylou. I kept hearing the refrain of "I can't remember if we said goodbye" interspersed with bits of that last phone conversation I had with him. I could hear his voice so clearly - it was so humble, so meek.

"I can't remember if we said goodbye"

As I drove, my vision became blurry from all the tears in my eyes and finally a tear ran down a cheek. The short drive was turning into miles and miles and it was becoming ever more difficult to keep from just sobbing. But I finally made it home. I empty my arms onto the table and sat down.

Should I or should I not look at the ashes? Would it be too morbid?

I opened the box to find a black rectangular box made of plastic. I shook it gently and heard the ashes moving inside. Prying open the top, I found a plastic bag full of light gray dust...what was left of my father.

I immediately began to choke up and then I couldn't hold it in any longer.

I bawled.

Like a baby.

It came from someplace deep down inside me that I never knew existed. This tight ball of sadness, of regret, and loneliness. My whole body shuddered in grief and I covered my face with my hands.

"I can't remember if we said goodbye"

Looking up at the ashes again, I poked the bag with my finger as if I could touch my father again. As tears streamed down my eyes, I whimpered like a child. Before this, my father's death was marked by his absence. Now, I had his ashes - something tangible - to drive home the fact that, no matter how well or unwell we got along, no matter how he drove me crazy, he is truly, permanently gone. No longer a distant, humble voice on the phone asking me to visit him, his body sits on the table next to me in a small black box while everything else about him resides in my head and my heart.

Just when I thought I'd cried enough for a while, I opened up a picture of him on the computer. His wide, toothless grin filled the entire screen and I broke down again. For the first time since his death, I missed him. For the first time since I was a boy, I missed my father.

Tears run down my cheeks as I type and I wonder if it's a man grieving or not. Because I feel like a lost little boy right now. It feels like, if I were to look over my shoulder, I'd see that little boy with the bright blonde hair who always wondered why his father hardly ever spent any time with him. Why his father never came outside to throw the football around like all his friends' dads did. That kid who had to wait 20 more years to get to know his own father. But like, him, that child is long gone.

Or is he?

Right now, I'd give anything for a hug. But that's 1000 miles and 4 days away.

When I saw the movie Big Fish, I can't tell you how much I identified with Will Bloom. There were tears in my eyes as the credits rolled. I was thinking earlier of going to get a box and mailing the ashes to my uncle as he's going to bury them. Part of me just wanted them out of sight but I realize that they can't be put out of mind. And I guess I don't want them to anyway. I'll let the box sit on the counter until I pack it in my car when I leave. I'm sure I'll cry some more and maybe I can use it as a focal point for my thoughts.

At the moment, all I can think about is this picture I have at home of my father holding me when I was only a few months old as I sucked on a bottle. That and how much I just want to be home.