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3 days ago
6
I scattered my parents’ ashes in the backyard of my childhood home on New Year’s Eve 10 years ago, drunk on grief and prosecco, and buzzed on a borrowed joint and stale fruitcake.
This wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to memorialize my parents. The evening had started innocently enough. A few hours earlier, I had been sipping tea and spooning my cat under a waning moon, with a new Ikea comforter and a fresh bag of Swedish fish. I had resigned myself to an evening devoid of social expectations and alcohol, of endlessly searching for the perfect plan and of the disappointment of never finding it.
“This year will be different,” I told myself.
I decided I’d watch other people celebrate as I counted down to midnight with bottomless cups of decaf Earl Grey, grilled cheese on rye and a wildly optimistic list of resolutions for my new Moleskine planner.
My evening would be simple, quiet, contemplative and sober. No hangover. No waking up with a stranger. No regrets. No “Why does my mouth taste like cigarettes?” or “Why is my tongue orange?” (It’s Cheetos, Shanti, it’s always Cheetos.)
I’d be fresh when others were foggy, quietly gloating as I jumpstarted the New Year with key action items from my “morning self-care” list: meditation, a sunrise swim and some sort of warm beverage involving turmeric. There would be planks, sit-ups, yoga or Pilates from my “just do it” exercise list, followed by vegan chickpea curry from my “healthy eating in the new year” list.
And yes, I would absolutely work on the “where to scatter Mom & Dad” list.
It had been 12 years since losing my mom to a brain tumor, and four years since losing my dad on my 41st birthday. It wasn’t until after he died that I found my mom’s ashes at the foot of his bed, wrapped in her favorite light blue cotton sweater and nestled between a cold hot water bottle and a thick pair of wool socks. My dad had been sleeping with her ashes for eight years, a discovery that, to me, was both triumphant and heartbreaking.
And no, I would absolutely not drink the bottle of prosecco burning a hole in my refrigerator door. Well, maybe just one glass. Or eat the stale fruitcake that my neighbor left for me on the porch three weeks ago.
I had it all figured out. Until I didn’t.
Three hours later and I’m wasted, wildly flinging fistfuls of my parents’ ashes into the air as I flail around the garden in my pyjamas with a joint in my mouth, an empty bottle of prosecco at my bare feet, and a Swedish fish stuck to my scalp.
My cat is pensively watching from the window – too confused to be bothered.
In an unfortunate twist, a strong gust of wind is propelling the ashes back at me, mixing with the heavy condensation in the air to create a thick paste that covers my body like some sort of exfoliating mud mask. Suddenly I’m shrouded in gritty powder.
I’m blissfully unaware and it’s probably for the best. I’m shuffling around the gravel path and straining to sing over my “High School Daze Mega Mix” blasting from an old boombox on the balcony – mostly 80s tracks with a bit of 70s Blondie thrown in. I dug out the battered cassette tape from a dusty Vans shoebox in the attic after downing the second half of the Italian bubbly and gorging myself on what I believed to be the last Swedish fish (lest we forget the one atop my head).
It is around this time that I remember that my roommate has a joint stashed in her sock drawer. I justify the heist because technically it was meant for me – a “medicinal offering” to induce some much-needed sleep after my dad died.
Seeing as how I never took her up on her offer, I figure: “What better time to spark up that bad boy? It’s New Year’s Eve!”
“Two puffs,” I whisper. “Two puffs and I’ll put it back. She’ll never know it was gone.”
I’m not much of a drinker, and even less of a stoner. I’d be more likely to overdose on sugar or black tea, but somewhere between Pictures of You and Heart of Glass, I find myself floating on a cloud of sophomoric bliss. I’m euphoric.
I’m circling the salvia (my dad’s favorite plant) as How Soon Is Now? shuffles into earshot when I’m suddenly consumed with what I believe to be, beyond a reasonable (or sober) doubt, the best-laid plan of my life.
“It’s time to set my parents free. In their garden, here and now!”
I throw my arms above my head, rejoicing in my decision, but sadly I’m preaching to an empty crowd. The neighbors have shut their windows and I’m pretty sure my cat has already fallen asleep.
Believe me, this kind of impromptu, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pyjama-pants plan wasn’t on any of my lists. Nor was it included in the plethora of grandiose memorial plans I had been tirelessly turning over in my grieving brain since losing both of my parents.
And boy did I have plans: poetry and processions, festive lighting and a smorgasbord of friends, family and food. Faraway lands and distant shores. I’d scatter the ashes in India, Greece or Hawaii.
I had thought about somewhere closer to home like the Sierras or the San Francisco Bay, but my dad had had a bad experience with a rattlesnake at 4,000ft and my mom thought the bay was too cold and foggy, so those were out.
For all of these years, I had thought my plan had to be perfect. I thought it had to be as full of life and love and joy as my mother and father were.
In the end, it was all those things, and we never left home. I’ve learned that life so rarely goes to plan.
I woke up on New Year’s Day in the bathtub, nestled in a damp beach towel in what appeared to be the failed aftermath of hosing ashes off my body, judging by the paste-like mess stuck to me. I felt relatively good despite the circumstance. As I watched my cat sleeping peacefully on my toes, I felt a sense of relief I hadn’t experienced in a very long time.
And all I could think was: “Why does my mouth taste like fruitcake?”
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Shanti L Nelson is a writer and photographer
