Ashes

The funeral home called me today. They are shipping Tom's ashes and wanted to make sure that I knew. That I was prepared to receive them. I assumed she meant mentally. I will have to go to the post office and sign for them. They didn't want it to be a shock for me. The entire time she is talking the conversation is peppered with 'honey,' 'hon,' and 'sweetie.' I'm finding that this is annoying me greatly. Now I live in a small..ish town. It was small enough recently enough that having a stranger call me by pet names is not that uncommon, but the familiarity here felt so misplaced. It was so casual. There is nothing casual about what was taking place. What had taken place. Death and honey don't pair well.

I'm actually ambivalent about the ashes themselves. This isn't Tom for me. We had discussed with each other what we wanted done with our bodies. Organ donation was number one. This unfortunately was not to be. Second was cremation. I could never nail him down on exactly where he wanted his ashes to be spread. Just out in the wilderness somewhere. Right now our cat Quatro sits in a cedar box on the mantle. I have no intention of placing Tom next to him. Brother Paul had a spur-of-the-moment thought while speaking at the service. A memorial ride on the anniversary of Tom's death. I think I'd like to spread some of his ashes then. I think some should be taken 'home' to Kentucky. I know Red River Gorge was a favorite spot for him. He took me there to hike when we visited and talked of it often. He liked the thought of becoming one with the land. The ground, the plants absorbing part of himself. A way to live on in another form. I like this thought too.

Though the ashes aren't an emotional issue for me, the answering machine is. If you've gotten its recording, you understand. "This is Tom and Rebecca, please leave a message" in Tom's voice. I have always loved his voice. I found it very lyrical and when we first started dating, he would read "The Wind in the Willows" to me. I'd close my eyes and get lost in the lilting harmonies of his voice. I haven't been able to will myself into changing it, but I'm also afraid that it is painful for friends and family to hear. I apologize if it is. I just need a little more time.

Time.

In these past 3 weeks I have run through more emotions, more quickly that I thought humanly possible. Shock to despair to numbness to an uneasy acceptance. It is what it is and I can't do anything to change it. I have to adapt and move forward. I am glad I have my art to focus me as well as my writing. Friend David told me that he would never be able to express his feelings so publicly. I admit that given how private I am that this is something that might seem out of character. For me this sharing is like when you can't solve a problem and you begin to explain it to someone else. As soon as you do, you gain a new insight or find a solution without the other person having uttered a sound. This serves as a way to look at myself from both the inside and the outside and so many people have told me that it helps them too. I am glad for this.

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Painting is "The Swing." We found it in a cemetery just outside of Sedona. We walked all around the plots that were adorned with personal gifts. Some had statues, pinwheels, beads, a trophy even. Things that meant something to the inhabitants or those left behind. I liked this. Much better than even rows of evenly spaced plaques with only flowers allowed. Some objects looked as if they had been there a long time. Nothing touched or stolen. Chaotic, yet respected.