My uncle Fed Ex’d my Dad grandpa’s ashes. But he didn’t tell Dad first — he didn’t call, or e-mail, or send a text.
So, Dad just opened the mail one day and found his dead dad in a box.
We debated scattering the cremains at grandpa’s favorite fishing spots.
But we decided to wait until
grandma died, so they could be together.
This weekend, we gathered at my aunt’s house to say good-bye to them both.
My cousin brought his answering machine from 1999, and played three-minute messages left by my grandparents. Menorah Manor had reduced Grandma’s possessions to two boxes filled with photos, a mis-matched pair of shoes, a Bible, a Jews-for-Jesus Bible (which confused us), an archaic pencil sharpener and Salt: A World History.
My aunt had already sprinkled a little bit of Grandpa into one of her rose bushes. Every time it blooms, she says, “Hello, Dad.”
She thought it would be nice to spread my grandparents around her rose garden.
Are there teeth and bone chips, I asked.
Yes, there are, my aunt said.
Scattering ashes with my family was a nightmare, because we’ve never done it before, we usually just bury people whole in a pine box. The ashes come in a black box, which took five people to open. Inside the box, are big plastic baggies of ashes.
My aunt’s roses are planted in wine barrels. At first, my relatives were taking turns, pouring a little of grandma in one, then a little of grandpa, like they were shaking out fertilizer.
“You’re together now, Mom,” my aunt said.
One of my cousins hung back. I stayed with him.
“Are you uncomfortable,” my aunt asked him.
“Yeah,” he said. “A little.”
Me too.
Especially when people just started reaching into the bags with their bare hands and grabbing handfuls of grandma and grandpa and throwing them into the flowers.
The wind kicked up. I felt my grandparents in my eyes.
One of my relatives walked over and said that when her dog died, she had him cremated. When she tried to scatter him, the puppy’s cremains got all over her.
“He was giving me one last hug,” she said.
