Cremated Ashes In A Box
A father and son monologue
Hey Dad, how’s it going? I guess it’s been a while since we spoke, but I’ve been busy with life and you’re a pile of ashes in a box. I’m doing well, as well as I can be. My partner is doing well too, just under a lot of stress from work. You know how it was before you retired from work.
The kids? They’re great, growing and being a pain in the ass. In fact, all your grandkids are doing well. You’d be proud of them and don’t worry, they’ll do well in life. I just wish you were here a bit longer to see them.
It’s been different since you didn’t wake up that November morning. I don’t know if you heard but two more of your siblings and your brother-in-law followed you into the great unknown. Did you guys meet up? Where ever you are?
Mom isn’t doing so well. We just got back from the ER for the second time in three weeks. Her spine injury from a few years ago reared its ugly head. She’s been in debilitating pain and refuses to take her medicine. I’m not sure if she’s being stubborn or not clear on the directions. I worry about her a lot. I know she misses you.
We all pitch in to make sure she and Aunt have food and all the heavy things are lifted and organized. They eat like birds and are safe, except they keep the heat in the house to like 75F. It drives me crazy but they’re a bunch of old ladies and it’s not my place to turn down the thermostat.
Aunt is hanging in there too, she can’t stand straight anymore. She and Mom drive each other crazy. They’re constantly bickering and complaining about each other. Now I understand why you got in your car and went to Home Depot a lot. You just needed to get away for a while.
We finally got your estate under control. It was time-consuming but I’m glad you had your affairs in order. The only thing left now is to clean up the garage and I’ve been avoiding that. I know how much the garage was your domain and all the mess in there has your DNA, your touch, imprinted on it. I can’t bear myself to organize it. Maybe next year.
So, what’s it like being dead? Is anything interesting happening? I think a lot about that day I took you to get French Fries. It was two months after you got out of the hospital last. Remember that? When you almost died from internal bleeding because you were a stubborn old man?
I remember the drive home when you were telling me of veiled regrets you had in life. What you said hit me like a ton of lead. You wondered what your life would’ve been like if you didn’t make two big choices when you were a young man, how inconsequential you thought those actions were.
I always wonder if you felt like your time on this mortal plane was coming to an end. I’m glad we got to eat those last French Fries together, at your favorite diner. I take my son, your grandson, there now to carry on the tradition, except we opt for salads now.
I was angry when you first died, angry that your stubbornness caught up and killed you. You refused to listen to the advice of your doctors in your early 40s. You could’ve made healthier choices back then and stayed with us longer. You’d always joke “you gotta die sometime” but that turned quite serious when you did die.
I’m not angry anymore but I’m still sad, and I miss you. I know you did your best trying to raise me and my sister. I know you tried to be a decent spouse to Mom, but I know that you made a lot of mistakes. I know that you were a good man at your core. I’d like to believe that a lot of what you did was because of cultural and family expectations, but I don’t know for sure.
I hate to say it but you taught me exactly what kind of man I want to be, for better or worse. I decided to take all the good qualities you had and mesh them inside me. I stay vigilant to all the bad qualities that might be lurking under my skin. Thanks to you, I work hard on being a better man.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not passing judgment on you. We’re just human after all, imperfect animated meat boxes that eat, shit, fuck, and fight. I can hear you chuckling about the “meat box” comment. I miss that, all the silly and inside jokes we had.
All in all, I’m glad I got to spend 51 years of my life with you. I’m glad you were my Dad. If I had a choice to do it all over again and pick you as my Father, I would. In a heartbeat.
Though next time I’d tell you to stop drinking so much and start taking care of your health earlier. I’d advise you to reconcile with Mom so that the two of you might be happier later on in life. Maybe we’d have a happier family next time.
The thing is, Dad, there’s no next time. That was it, that was your life. There won’t be any second chances. There’s no do-over. Maybe that’s what you wanted to tell me when you died, not to take my life for granted. Not to waste my time being miserable and instead chase my happiness.
Maybe that’s you whispering to me in the wee hours of the night. I hear a voice that tells me that everything we do is just noise and that the only thing we can leave behind is memories in other people’s minds.
Well, you’re in my memory till I die, so you’re immortal for a bit longer. Then what? Then I become a memory in my children’s minds. After another generation, my memory and yours are gone.
Whew, boy did this conversation veer into some existential dread, but it’s important to talk about. It’s important to feel that sense of urgency and live your life to the fullest. Maybe that’s why you liked to get together with your friends and family so much. Eating, drinking, and singing late into the night. I remember those days, your voice was the loudest.
Did you know something about life that you didn’t tell me? Was it something so frightening that you couldn’t utter the words? Or maybe you just felt it, like I do, that dread?
Well, Dad, it’s been nice chatting. I got to get ready for work. I’ll stop by the house later this weekend and go through the bills with Mom. Don’t worry, I got everything under control now. I’ll make sure the house stays in order and Mom and Aunt are safe and happy.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Love you Dad.
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