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Stillamom 
The Ashes
The first ashes belonged to my husband. I kept them for 2 years. They sat there in the top of my cupboard. At first they made me feel miserable every time I opened the door but finally I stopped seeing them, they were just there.
It took me all of two years to get my act together enough to decide what to do with them. There is a holiday cottage just down the road from where I live now. We all used to go there for holidays when the boys were small and we lived in the city. It’s right on the edge of the ocean with a rocky promontory jutting out into the sea. The waves break over it at high tide. It’s very beautiful. So one late afternoon I gathered up our two reluctant teenage sons and we drove the few miles to the promontory. Neither of them wanted to come. They stood in a small protest meeting of two on the beach and watched me slip and slide over the rocks to the oceans edge. I had no spiritual beliefs at the time, so I pretty much just ripped open the box and chucked them unceremoniously into the ocean. At least I tried to. Just as I threw them a gust of wind caught them and blew them back in my face. Yeah – right. I jolly well deserved it. So there I stood, covered in sea spray and my husband’s ashes laughing and crying and pretty pissed off with the whole thing. My husband had a great sense of humour, one of the things I loved most about him. I think he would have enjoyed it.
The second ashes belonged to my mother. Just the two of us one sunny morning. The same place. She was 89 when she died, in her bed, in my house, just as I had promised her. I loved her dearly but we had said our good byes a long time ago. I just put her ashes carefully into a pool and watched the tide gently wash them out to sea. It took quite a long time. Quiet and peaceful, just as she had died. No prayers but a great sense of peace.
The third ashes belonged to my son. You might reasonably expect to deal with your mother’s ashes and even your husband’s but your child is another matter. I was too scared to leave them in the house for very long. Every time I saw them I wanted to be physically sick. Even when I couldn’t see them they dominated my thoughts. The mortal remains of my child in a small cardboard box. For some reason it had been wrapped in orange striped paper. Like a gift. It was in the house for one week, between the cremation and the memorial service. In the evening, after the service was over, his brother, two of his friends and I went back to the promontory. As the sun set we cast his ashes into the sea, held hands and prayed. Held each other and cried as the sea gulls cried with us overhead.
I’m getting better at doing this but I can’t do it again. The next one to be thrown off the promontory had better be me.
