When I got to Hawaii, I went to our beach.  It was where we kissed for the first time.  It was also where we went right after our wedding.  On the way to our honeymoon hotel, we passed this same beach. We looked at each other, “Let’s stop!” we both said, then laughed and smiled.  We stopped there and it became another first for us. We didn’t wait till we got to the hotel room.  It was way more romantic than a hotel room anyway.   This was our special beach, our special spot.   

Today was the exact day in the same place where we had been 12 years earlier, our 12th anniversary. I drove there myself though.  It was something I needed to do alone.  As I got out of the rental car, the thought came to my mind, ‘Not all of me is here.’  I turned to the heavens.  What do you mean?  “Not all of me is here,” he said it again.  Ohhhh… I sighed, not all of you is here, so you don’t want all your ashes spread here, just some of them.  

”OK,” I replied as I thought of all the places that were him; our home, our boys, the house he was in where he died.  There were a lot of places where he was.  Spreading these ashes wouldn’t be a one time event.  Here I was back in Hawaii again with him, but alone. I was holding in my arms the only remaining physical evidence of what was once the body he held against me here. I thought of the lips he kissed me with that first time, it was all here.  So then, this would be another first for me, spreading ashes.  

I walked to our exact spot.  The view included Chinaman’s hat across the way, it was exactly as it had been on that day here 12 years ago.  We had enjoyed this beach as well as our new marriage, right here in this spot.  This spot that now means even so much more to me. In the warm sand and light breeze the memories are quietly held, our happy and racy memories. These memories felt sad today. 

I opened the box.  How much of you is here?  I wondered.  I put my hand in grasping onto the fine powder between my fingers.  It shocked me to touch it.  How does one do this process?  I didn’t know.  I decided to say the things I had loved about him as I let go of each handful.

I love the way you looked at me, I started.  I love the way we’d talk at night before sleep came.  I love the boys we made. I love the way you’d smile when you looked at me.  I love the way your eyes narrowed when you were working on a project and totally focused.  I love the way you loved our boys.  I love that everything you did was for our family.  I love that we could talk about anything and everything.  I love how safe and comfortable I felt with you, always.  I love how you looked when you were flying.  I love the way you’d get excited about fire, every time you saw it.  I love the way you gave to others, your time, money, knowledge, experiences.  I love the way your face lit up when you taught someone something new that blew their mind.  I love how your heart was good. 

I paused.  I looked at my hands.  They were covered in grey dust.  How can this be him?  His entire body reduced down to something I can easily carry in one arm.  I noticed the residue on my hands.  It was a film that made the dust stick to my hands.  It felt awful, like chalk mixed with something that stuck to it.  I plunged my hands into the ocean water to try and get it off.  It was terrible.  

The water washed over my hands, but the film stuck.  Oil I thought.  My stomach turned.  This is body oil that’s causing this stickiness, that’s why it won’t wash off with just water.  It would make sense that there would be oil in here, it wouldn’t have been completely burned.  I felt traumatized all over again.  His body oil was on my hands.  I couldn’t do this.  Ok, my hands already have it all over.  I’m not going to get to some soap till I get home.  I stuck my hand in again, another hand full.  

I opened my hand and let it lift with the light breeze.  I continued, I love that everything you touched seemed to turn to gold, but we both know that’s because you worked so hard to make things happen.  I love that you loved Jesus.  I love that you were faithful, to me and your beliefs.  I love that you weren't afraid of hard work.   I love that you held my hand when I gave birth.  I love that you got annoyed when I left my clothes on the floor, but didn’t say anything because you knew it didn’t matter. 

I love that the baby says, “I love you daddy,” every time he sees you.  I love that you help keep the house clean.  I love that we went on a date every week.  I love that the boys love their time with you and beg for “daddy time.”   I love how generous you were.  I loved how strong you were.  I loved how you could fix anything. 

I looked at my hand and there was something there, too big for the wind to blow out.  I picked it up.  It was white, textured and very hard.  Bone I thought.  Oh I thought as my heart dropped, this is a piece of his bone.   A piece that didn’t quite get disintegrated.  Oh those bones that I never saw, hidden beneath the skin.  Now, it’s here in my hand, I can see it.  What it was, what it represented.  What it did inside his body and that it’s no longer there.  It felt so final to look at this piece of the inside now out.    No, I can’t do this.  Please make this stop.  It’s too much.  

That’s enough for here, I felt.  The boys need to be a part of this too, in the house where you died.  I’ll take this back to that house and let them do this in the backyard.  They’re a part of you too, that is not here.  Not all of you is here.  You’re right.  

This is nothing of what you were.  These ashes are just pieces of matter.  They aren’t you.  You are the memories I have.  The times remembered.  How I felt when I was around you.  Those are what you are.  The sacred places in my heart and mind that no one can see, that is you.  Things that are on the inside of me, not the outside of me.  This ash here in my hand, it’s not you.  I closed the box, slightly distraught and walked to the car.  The things they don’t tell you about spreading ashes, I thought.  This was not sacred, it was sobering.  It threw me back into the thoughts of death and what death means in infinite detail.  I felt what was truly left of Grant, and it wasn’t in that black box full of dust.