What have you done with your loved ones’ ashes? Does it bring you comfort? In my case, I don’t know what happened to my wife’s body after the little curtains closed while the congregation recited the Lord’s Prayer at the crematorium. After a break-down of communications between my in-laws and me, her ashes ended up with them. They hate me and, I suspect, will never stop blaming me for her suicide. I try to not let this bother me. The important things to hold onto are the love and the memories of how she lived, not an urn that sits next to the telly. At least, I tell myself this so that I don’t get too upset that there’s no special resting place I can go and visit to feel just that little bit closer to her when the urge comes.
I do wonder if my parents-in-law honoured my wife’s wishes. She joked, but I think she was kind of serious; wife wanted to be scattered in the pet cemetery in their garden alongside various family dogs and cats that had gone before her. She was silly and hilarious like that. Perhaps she’s blowing around England or Wales, having been tipped out a container at some place insignificant to her, but significant to her family. Perhaps she’s on the mantelpiece in a Royal Doulton pot in the posh lounge that they never go in, apart from at Christmas. Perhaps she’s been turned into a diamond that now sits on her sister’s finger and will become a prized family heirloom. Perhaps her ashes were mixed in with paint and there’s a life-size portrait hanging in the hall next to everyone else’s wedding pictures (not ours, of course. God forbid people find out that she killed herself, never mind that she was a rug-munching lesbian too.) One thing I can thankfully be certain of is that her cremains did not end up inside the dildo for widows, which inspired this post.
Just like I’ll never know why she killed herself, I’ll also have to accept I’ll never know where she ended up. I guess it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things because I have complete and utter faith that she’s in heaven with Jesus and when I see her, I can give her an absolute fucking bollocking, then wrap her up in my arms and hug her so, so tight again. That’s far better than sitting in the bollock freezing British cold looking out into the abyss feeling sorry for myself. Right?
I might have a little cry and a glass of sauvignon blanc now.
Do please follow my blog if you’re looking for encouragement that life gets different and better despite loss. We just ride the little waves of grief when they come, like I am doing today.