not in body
i fear that the original emotion i had tied to this entry has lost potency as time passed. and without putting myself back in that frame of mind, without undoing some of the healing process, i still crave written documentation on the matter.
dad’s physical presence ceases to exist. his body, the mere vehicle for something transcendent, is literally gone. it’s that simple.
not too long before dad fell into his poorest health, he confirmed with father bill that cremation was a perfectly legitimate burial rite in the eyes of the catholic church. it used to not be, but catholicism is reforming its ways in some aspects. other than financial, i’m not sure what his or mom’s reasons are for requesting cremation, but i know it’s something that i’ve wanted for myself as well. my affinity for the ocean lends itself to having at least a portion of my remains spread across the waves. for memorial purposes, though, having a headstone shared with my one and only will still be in order.
but these ashes, and pardon the slight gruesomeness, mixed with bits of bone; the body that is no more. without question, the whole concept is quite peculiar and unreal.
the funeral home hands over a black plastic box with a bag of dust inside. depending on your tastes and monetary preference, a more ornate encasement can be requested. the family of the deceased can even order lockets and other adornments filled with some of the ashes. to all of us, this idea bordered on creepy and was quickly dismissed. the standard-issue box would suffice since it would be nestled in the ground anyway. we did reserve some of his remains to spread over skamperville. a close buddy of his had designated a few spots for dad, and we knew he wanted it that way. skamperville was his vacation home of sorts; he could now follow in my footsteps and live like he was always on vacation.
but really, think about this. a plastic box. a bag of ashes. i truly did not have a dad anymore. nothing solidified this fact more than that damn box. naz reminded me, though, that i will always have a dad. his body was not of importance. his physical being had grown weary and sick, and it simply could not handle the rigors of the cancer and the subsequent treatments. he had withered down to a paltry 130 or so pounds; his body wasn’t really his own anymore. and despite his body expiring, it wouldn’t erase his memory or the lessons he instilled or the laughter he invoked.
naz is right. cremation can’t take away what i know of my father. in my mind, he’s still just out gassing up the truck and grabbing a pack of smokes anyway.