My Dad's Ashes
It's Bring Your Father to Work Day
Hi beautiful people,
My dad’s ashes arrived at my house on Wednesday. I did not know what to expect; I did not imagine such a gleeful greeting.
“Hi Dad!” I gushed, wrapping my arms around the USPS box. Steve stood by watching. “Oh Dad. It’s so good to see you. Steve, Dad’s here!”
Do you know what? I could have cuddled this weather-beaten priority-mail box all night long. I hugged the box, I kissed it.
The next day, Dad was still in the USPS box when I spoke to my mom. “I’m sorry, Tatyana, I can’t face your father’s ashes,” she said over the phone. “Just get me the death certificates, they should be in there.”
I opened the box, removed the death certificates, then the little black box that contained—ta da!—a thick plastic bag of ashes that resemble ground stone. Or rough pebbly sand. It’s not the whispy white sand-ash that movie characters drop into a sparkly sea. I pressed my fingers into the plastic, feeling the rough sand. THIS was once the form of a man who was an obsessive weight-lifter, who loved the human form and had a lot of opinions about it.
“Mom, don’t worry. You don’t ever have to see Dad’s ashes. I’ll take care of him.”
I brought Dad into my office. All my adult working life he loved talking to people about their careers. It was a point of contact for him, a conversational bridge, despite the fact he was a renaissance man who could discuss almost any subject. We bonded and argued over my career, which bounced along in unconventional and inconsistent ways. I wanted his approval, and I didn’t want to want it. There were times I was forthcoming, other times defensive, even bratty.
When my dad’s dementia set in, he stopped asking me “How’s your work?” or “How are your finances?” I missed our old tropes. But we moved into a different, more expansive space.
I’m making January TAKE YOUR FATHER TO WORK MONTH
This morning I Zoomed with two dear friends and study buddies. “Is that your dad?” one of them asked, referring to a black box on a drawer. Yup, it was.
The thing about having “Dad” around, is that little black box is the reminder of what happens when you go ALL IN with someone. The last few years of my father’s life were not ideal, in that he had no memory, no eye sight, and was sedentary and dependent. But in came something new: a needless, perfect love. By “perfect” I think I mean a love with no conditions, no expectations, just two living spirits loving each other as is.
Now that Dad’s gone, I’ve been reflecting on what it means to be ALL IN. To be with and in what life brings us with no resistance. Most areas of my life carry at least a flicker of “no” or “maybe.” Plenty are riddled with F🤬CK NO and a white-knuckling of willfulness, but these days I know what’s real. The experience is coming from me, not the thing out there.
More than missing my dad, I’m moving through my days just loving the shit out of him. He lived a long life (97); a good life. There was nothing unsaid, nothing unresolved. In the last few years, nothing but expressing our love for each other, our gratitude for an amazing life together, and wondering about what might be the next great adventure.
I spent almost four years telling my dad “your next great adventure is going to be SOOO good,” that I started believing it myself. I don’t know WHAT’s next, but the idea that the journey from This Life to Whatever Else Is Next could be the coolest experience ever, brings me peace and happiness. I’m excited for my dad.
When I think about my dad—and “see” him (in his black box), there’s only one thing/experience/feeling. Love. And maybe now I can begin to understand what love really is. Needless, playful, all in.
You can catch up on past writings about my dad’s great adventure here:
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Here’s a beautiful song I’ve had on repeat these days. It came to me during a Zoom call when at one point people were saying, “She’s in the waiting room.” Enjoy.
I cried.