Unpacking My Grandmother

We are back home now after nearly a month of visiting my parents. This trip has probably been the most relaxed, most amiable. It has been wonderful to wake up every morning to the smell of bacon and coffee. I have been very spoiled, and I have to say I am not thrilled to once again be responsible for feeding my children breakfast.

On Wednesday, my dad dragged me into his closet. Before coffee. Before my lenses were in (and most anyone who wears contact lenses knows the difference between the sleepy-glasses feeling and the awake contact lens moment). He was stressed to hand off my grandmother. She has been tucked in his closet since that awful memorial, and he did not want me to forget the urn or her ashes.

I was not prepared for this. I needed to have a moment or ten to brace myself to get my mental facilities in order. No dice. He handed me the empty urn. Thankfully, the ashes had already been divided, but his unceremoniously handing over of a plastic bag with her name Sharpied across the front left me breathless and slightly ill.

I made sure I packed the urn and ashes in two separate bags. I know there are those who would argue that I should have stashed her in my carry-on. I did have the permit from the funeral home, but with two kids constantly rifling through our bags I did not want to risk any kind of What's this? scenario.

Sure enough, the bag with the urn was opened by TSA. The zip tie was cut off, and the bastards did not leave a slip saying it had been opened. Illegal, I believe. Thankfully, the suitcase with her ashes had not.

My father's first phone call to me once I'd landed did not begin with hello or how was your flight, but Did my mother make it? I didn't have the heart to tell him I hadn't unpacked her, yet.

That task was left to yesterday morning. I didn't really want to look all that closely, but you know that is simply impossible. It is hard to reconcile that those dusty ashes are all that remain of her. Her laugh, her cigarette smoke, the smell of her Dove soap all resonate in my head. One is A, one is B, and I just cannot bring myself to believe that the two together equal C. The urn was purchased on impulse and as a security measure. Through my actions, my father was able to secure his own, in that manner completely cutting my uncle out of the equation.

Now that we have accomplished our goal, I am left at an impasse. I don't quite know what to do. I know my grandmother would have hated the idea of sitting on someone's bookcase but packing her away in a closet doesn't seem right, either. Eventually, I will have her ashes interred at the same military cemetery where my grandfather is buried. We don't have the finances to do it right now, which means she'll be hanging with us for a while. So now what?

I think I will pour her a cup of coffee.