That’s the nature of memory, though. It ambushes you.
Sharon Olds writes about her father’s cremains . . .
His Ashes
by: Sharon Olds
The urn was heavy, small but so heavy,
like the time, weeks before he died,
when he needed to stand, I got my shoulder
under his armpit, my cheek against his
naked freckled warm back
while she held the urinal for him—he had
lost half his body weight
and yet he was so heavy we could hardly hold him up
while he got the fluid out, crackling and
sputtering like a wet fire. The urn had that
six-foot heaviness, it began
to warm in my hands as I held it, under
the blue fir tree, stroking it.
The shovel got the last earth
out of the grave—it must have made that
kind of gritty iron noise when they
scraped his ashes out of the grate—
the others would be here any minute and I
wanted to open the urn as if then
I would finally know him. On the wet lawn,
under the cones cloaked in their resin, I
worked at the top, it gave and slipped off and
there it was, the actual matter of his being:
small, speckled lumps of bone
like eggs, a discolored curve of bone like a
fungus grown around a branch;
spotted pebbles—and the spots were the channels of his marrow
where the live orbs of the molecules
swam as if by their own strong will
and in each cell the chromosomes
tensed and flashed, tore themselves
away from themselves, leaving their shining
duplicates. I looked at the jumble
of shards like a crushed paper-wasp hive;
was that a bone of his wrist, was that from the
elegant knee he bent, was that
his jaw, was that from his skull that at birth was
flexible yet—I looked at him,
bone and the ash it lay in, chromium-
white as the shimmering coils of dust
the earth leaves behind it, as it rolls, you can
hear its heavy roaring as it rolls away.
In her hands, Olds holds all that is left of her father’s body. The man who loved her into being. Held her as an infant. Self-medicated his disappointment and anger with alcohol. Physically abused her and her siblings. The urn contains the weight of all that.
It was a long, weighty trip home. We went out to breakfast with my daughter and her significant other before we left. IHOP. My daughter ordered blueberry pancakes—they’ve always been her favorite. In fact, it’s almost blueberry season in the U.P., and for the first time in a long while, she’s not going to be able to go picking with me. (I’m hoping to talk my son into accompanying me this year.)
Did I cry? Did she cry? Did we all cry?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
All day long, I felt a weight on my shoulders. When we finally pulled into the driveway, I looked at the house and thought to myself, “This place is never going to feel the same.” A part of it is missing. Of course, there are reminders of my daughter all over the place. On Friday night, we watched one of her favorite movies—The Corpse Bride. The DVD was still sitting by the TV. There’s a framed photo collage of my daughter hanging on the wall. And, I kid you not, I swear I could still smell her presence in the house.
So, as I sit typing this post, I am surrounded by her. She haunts this house, in a good way. Am I crying again? Maybe.
I’m sure, in a couple months, this is all going to feel normal, whatever normal is. However, right now, I don’t feel normal. I feel like an open wound.
Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
For today’s poem, begin by making a list of your burdens. They may be real or imagined, great or small, but make sure they are specific; for instance, not “my child,” but “the weekly trips to the sensory gym and speech therapy.” Once you’ve done this, make an accompanying list of your pleasures: knitting, berry picking, fishing, calligraphy. Write a poem that contrasts your passions with your commitments using “because” to create anaphora, the literary term for the repetition of a word or phrase at the beginnings of successive clauses. Example: Because I rehabilitate in a stuffy gym each Tuesday afternoon, I fill my basket with blueberries, my ego dissolving with each plunk. Because I writhe at the suggestion that I must break into a sweat, I recline in my chaise, blueberries unbrooding my brain.
Just Because
by: Martin Achatz
Because poetry chases me, I lock
the front door, turn off all lights,
watch a movie I’ve seen dozens
of times, maybe Jaws or Raiders.
Because sadness visits in the middle
of night, I eat vanilla ice cream
sprinkled with Lucky Charms
even though Mom told me once
that all my teeth wold fall out.
Because the toilet tank leaks
a bucket every couple hours, I collect
copies of A Christmas Carol—hardcover,
paperback, illustrated, Muppet,
pocket-size—so I’m surrounded
by ghosts and plum pudding always.
Because I’m middle-aged and hate
to sweat, I take my dog for walks
in the woods where she can
hunt yellowtails in long grass.
Because my daughter just moved
away to attend college, I unlock
the front door tonight, sit down, pick
up a fountain pen, begin writing
this poem. I’ll mail it to her
tomorrow with an IHOP gift card.
Blueberries are in-season, and she
won’t be able to go picking
with me this year.
