I went on a walk with my mom.  We walked in silence.  What do you say anyway?  She patiently held a space for me, watched me, helped me with the kids, but I’m sure she didn’t really know the right thing to do or say. Just being there was where she needed to be, and all I needed really.  

What casket? What material? The location of the plot? I didn’t even have a plot. Nor did I have any idea of what location I’d even want. What would be appropriate?  It just wasn’t time for all these decisions. I thought this with every question asked of me while planning my husband’s funeral.  Even with the most compassionate and patient method of asking, each question descended upon me like I was being buried.  I felt deeper than 6 feet under. 

I hadn’t thought of these decisions. I thought I’d plan this in like 40 more years. I really hadn’t thought about it, at all.  So I asked Grant, what do you want?  Where would you like to be buried?  What do I do?  I don’t know what to do.  Help me!  The decisions one has to make when someone dies hit me hard. 

So as my mom and I were walking, it almost felt like part of a normal life, the one I didn’t have anymore.  To just to go out and walk, to just use the body that was mine, the one still working.  Grant’s body wasn’t working anymore.  That’s why he didn’t walk home.  He could no longer walk.  That’s what I thought as we walked in the sun and fresh air.  

The whole situation felt so off, I mean how does a mother help a daughter in her mid 30’s go through the process of becoming a widow over night? How does grandma help the little grandkids as they realize Daddy isn’t coming home again?  Isn’t it supposed to be the daughter that comforts her mother when granddad passes away?  It’s supposed to happen when someone  has grand or great grand in their title.

They shouldn’t have young kids at home when it happens.  That’s what I thought.  Of course, that’s because I still believed that there’s a chronological order to life.  There’s not.  It’s all about what your order is.  It's different for all of us.   My order isn’t her order and your order isn’t mine.  We know this now. 

What do I do? I silently thought as we walked.  Grant was right there next to me. To my mind came the words,  “I want to be cremated,” he expressed, “I don’t want people to look at my cold dead body.  It looks horrible.”  I agreed with him on that one.  It did look terrible. He continued, “Then go to Hawaii, to our special spot and spread my ashes there.”

“Ohhhhh,” I said audibly, “Of course.” My mom turned to me, looking, waiting to see if there was context to this verbal comment that broke our silence.  I told her that Grant just told me he wants to be cremated, then he wants his ashes spread on our beach in Hawaii.

Back into my mind I went. It makes sense I thought, and of course you wouldn’t want people to see your body, you’re possessive of your image. ‘You’re so vain,’ my thought judged. I felt vexed that he was dead, necessitating this conversation in the first place.  ‘People here may need to see your body for closure and for their own process,’ I chided him, in my thoughts.  ‘Remember this is for the people still here, it’s not FOR you.’  He receded, “Fine, if it’s really important to you, you can display my broken body, but that’s such a weird gruesome tradition you mortals engage in,” he judged back.  ‘Humph,’ I thought, ‘Well I’ll cremate you but we are doing a viewing,’  I decided. 

Besides, you really can’t put Grant in a box.  The whole premise of his life was thinking “outside the box” and the thought of putting HIM in a cement box for the rest of time, seemed well, just wrong. That would be the worst thing I could do to him.  Then for a split second I thought, I just might do it. It’d serve him right for dying on me.  But then again, I wanted to go to Hawaii. After I decided this, I felt more peaceful.  I felt the clarity of a conversation we didn’t have before he passed with the information I received after he died.  

A few weeks later I flew to Hawaii. I had all the permits. I had the box of his ashes. I bought the tickets with Grant’s card, in his name. It was supposed to get us free checked luggage. That’s why I used his card.  When we got to the airport the ticket agent at the counter informed me that the main cardholder had to be traveling with the group to get the bags checked for free, otherwise it’d be $25 per bag.  For me and my 4 little children, that’d be an extra $125 I didn’t plan on paying.  I lifted the box of ashes out of my carryon bag.  “He is here I said, he’s right here.  

The ticket agent looked at the box, he looked at me and he looked at my four kids.  He said, “Oh I see, ok well, let me see what I can do. We’ll get these included for you.  I expressed my appreciation, “Thanks, I really appreciate it. I used his card to get the benefit, but I didn’t realize that was a regulation.  I thought I just had to buy the ticket with his account. I didn’t expect to be doing all this.” I felt like I had to explain.  The ashes said it all, I just kept talking unnecessarily.  It was the uncertainty in my life talking, not me.  We got on the flight without having to pay for the extra bags.