I was going to call this "My Dad Came In The Mail Last Night"... but that's just sick, right?
One way or another, I received a box from Blanche yesterday and, opening it, I found a tasteful, silver urn inside. And I realized... this is my Dad.
And I thought, How fortunate I was careful opening it. Or I'd end up with my Dad all over the place!
Granted, it's not all of my Dad. Blanche had his ashes split up into an urn for each of his kids, and herself I would suspect.
And, of course, that has me wondering... what part of Dad do I have? The urn is no larger than a miniature soda can - what's in there? His hand? His liver? His penis? I don't think I very much like the idea of having Dad's Penis Ashes in my house. For that matter, any ashes aren't that Keeeeeuuuuwwweellllll...
Perhaps next summer, on the anniversary of his death, I'll take him down to the ocean and set him to sea. My father loved the ocean. He also liked Disneyland... maybe a little should go to Disneyland... And Big Bear. He was a fan of Big Bear. Shit, by summer, I'll have a whole fucking list of where my Dad should go. (Stop yourself before you make the obvious joke. I'm an atheist; the only hell I believe in is where I spend my days until I find a new job.)
I watched my Dad's urn this morning as I readied myself for work and came to realize there is something to this, though. I tried to tell Blanche but it came out wrong, I think. The thing is, I keep feeling like he's not really gone. He was absent from my life for so long, his death doesn't feel tangible. With those ashes sitting in that urn, placed in the front of our living room, I can meditate on the reality of the situation and come to terms with what it really means for him to be gone. And accept that.