The Day after Christmas...

So I skipped a week—big deal. Isn’t that what holidays are for? Trust me, though, the time was brimming over with activity, and now my only chore is to figure out what to write about.  Should I report on our trip to Universal Studios? Christmas dinner with family and new acquaintances, including an Olympic Gold medalist? Or maybe…the spontaneous decision to scatter my mother’s ashes, four years after her death.

A good deal of background would probably help clarify things for a reader unfamiliar with my bizarre family situation, but we can do without that. Just the facts, man, and if I seem a little cold or removed from the situation, that’s because I am—and have been from the tender age of 1.

Visiting my half-sister on Christmas day, I asked out of curiosity if my mother’s ashes had been scattered, figuring by now they had been. No, Bonnie said, they’re right here, and promptly brought out what looked like a gift bag, complete with peaks of white tissue paper. Inside the bag was a sealed plastic cube containing the ashes. “I've been keeping her in the cedar chest and never got around to doing anything about it,” she said.

The container was heavier than I expected, about 7 or 8 pounds, I guessed. We sat at the kitchen table, staring at the bag; a slow, oppressive mood permeated the room, resisting our light, even irreverent comments. Then I had an idea.

“You know,” I began, “she always talked about wanting to go to the beach. She brought it up almost every time I’d visit, even after she was in the nursing home..."

It’s true. My mother obsessed about visiting the beach, but after she became paralyzed in her mid-30s it never happened. Logistically, it would have been extremely difficult, nearly impossible…and at a certain point, her yearning seemed almost symbolic. “Going to the beach” meant reliving the happier, carefree times of her youth, forgetting the physical and emotional entrapment of her daily life.

And that’s how the decision was made.  We agreed to take her ashes to the nearby beach and release them into the Pacific.

The morning was sunny and clear, with a light breeze—a perfect Southern California day. I spent almost an hour walking on the beach, carrying my mother’s ashes in a backpack, while my partner, sister and her husband did yoga. As I walked, I had a quiet, one-way conversation while taking in the sights and sounds of the ocean. “OK, we’re at the beach mom. It’s a beautiful day.” The weight of the backpack was both irksome and oddly comforting.

Then it was time. We took off our shoes and socks and walked to the water’s edge, the waves rushing up to lap at our feet. Using a small abalone shell, one at a time we took turns scooping grayish-white ash into the surf and watching as it was carried out to sea.  Bon Voyage, mom, my sister said. You’re free now.