To Dust You Shall Return

For every one thing that you consider difficult when losing a loved one there are two things you won't even have reason to think about until after they're gone. I considered all the obvious ones while she was still alive. I knew waking up in the morning was going to be hard. I knew driving her car without her next to me was going to be hard. I knew the holidays were going to be hard. I knew that sitting outside in the back enjoying the sun was going to be hard because those are all things we've done together my entire life (except for the driving part). I knew the memorial service was going to be hard, but that is sort of the point, giving the family an opportunity to openly grieve together. Like I said, I was prepared (as much as one could be) for the obvious ones. 

It never crossed my mind that spending time with her brothers and sisters would be hard. I never thought that having her dogs in my lap would be difficult, but it is, because that's not where they would be if she were here. I never thought I would wrestle with the decision to watch her take her final breath after I had already made it. It's been nine days, I can't take it back, but every morning I wish I hadn't and every night I'm glad I did. I never thought that not actually saying the word 'goodbye' would be harder than saying it, but it is. I never thought about how present the emptiness was going to be. I didn't think that at the slightest hint of disrespect for my grandmother, her body, or my family I would be outraged. Turns out it didn't take much at all. But most of all I didn't think about how I would feel when her remains were brought home.

It took a week for the doctor to sign the death certificate (the reason for my outrage) and then she was cremated. Initially I wanted my grandmother's remains at home, where they belonged. Last night I got the phone call saying that I could come and pick her up when I wanted. I went first thing this morning. 15 death certificates and a box full of ashes in a decorative paper bag with the Hollywood Forever logo on it. Now that description may sound disrespectful, but I assure you it isn't. For those who have never experienced something like this before I want you to get a clear picture. You walk into the lobby and tell the receptionist the reason for your visit, then minutes later someone comes from another part of the building carrying a bag and papers for you to sign. In those few moments I realized that the woman who was 4'6" at the time she died and stood just below my shoulder would (if I set her on the ground), in her urn, barely come mid-calf. Reality is a funny thing, and this morning it hit me like a ton of bricks.

From dust she came and to dust she did return, but the only thing the mortuary service managed to return to me is her body and the ashes of purple orchids and a willow tree. But that's not really what I want sitting just outside my bedroom door. I wish they could have given me her laugh or her smile. I wish they could have given me the way she would hit me when I was being a pongolo or her kisses. I wish they could have given me the way she said 'Mija' or how she would tell my baby cousins, "Kiss Grandma". Everything of who my grandma was is safely tucked away inside the minds and hearts of everyone that knew her. I don't want the thought of her ashes in my head, I don't get wanting it in my living room. 

Don't get me wrong, I am grateful that her body is safe, even if it looks more like sand then a body, but they didn't give me back my grandmother. They gave me the house her spirit dwelt in, the shelter that housed her mind, heart, and soul. 

Without those her ashes may just as well be ashes.