When I was visiting my father about five years ago, he asked me to take my mother’s ashes to my place, and save them until they could be buried together. He had a small apartment and a new girlfriend and I readily agreed. When I got home, my boyfriend was cooking dinner and his children were glued to their screens. As calmly as I could, I walked to my bedroom and slipped mom under my bed.
We had a fun evening and during our morning cuddle, I told my boyfriend this story. He sprung out of bed, horrified and demanded that my mother be moved. I laughed tears and told him that my mom would have been very happy last night for both of us. And, I did demote her to the closet and greeted her with a respectful hello each morning, when I picked out my clothes.
After that, when I visited friends, I recognised urns of ashes on fireplace mantles, on patios, and even in a sewing room. There were parents, pets and other important people. It led me to wonder how many people keep ashes with them and what happens to them when the keeper of the ashes, dies? Did you hear about the car that was stolen with ashes in it? The owner of the car was desperate to get them back and went on the news. Two years ago, I buried both of my parents in a lovely cemetery in downtown Toronto and visit them often. It’s a short walk from my home and helps me feel connected with these two strong influences of my life.