Locket
Your father is with you, now. Resting in the hollow of your throat, resting in a gold locket. It's small, on a delicate chain. It's not fancy, there is no engraving, the chain is unembellished, so it's perfect. It's not about the look, it's about what's inside.
You have a little jar of him up on your mantle. It's also plain, a jar you bought on a whim at the grocery store on the way to the lake where your family scattered his ashes. You didn't think you would want any until you saw the black box and lifted it up and it still had weight and substance. When you shook it, he rattled. You suddenly needed a piece of him to keep.
You have thought about it for a while now, but you finally do it. You take out the locket, and the jar, and the chain, and you find the smallest spoon you have. You clear off a spot on the table and unscrew the lid. You are careful careful careful not to get any ashes anywhere you don't want them. It was easier than you thought it would be. The locket is so small, you had visions of spilling him all over the table and having him fall in the carpet and knowing he would never be complete because of you.
But it doesn't go like that. The spoon picks up a miniscule part of him and taps him into the bed of the locket, and you close it. It snicks shut and it's done. No dad on the table and carpet.
But the spoon has a little residue on it. Not very much, just a fine powder that there is no way you'll be able to get back into him. You don't hesitate really, you just do what you'd been thinking about for a long time. You lick the spoon delicately, tasting the leftovers of his body.
You don't want to tell anyone. You're sure that this is the strangest impulse ever, but you've been wondering ever since you saw the ashes for the first time, what they would taste like. You don't know what you expected, but he is slightly salty, and almost tangy. The ash is so fine that there is no texture, no grit, just a place in the center of your tongue where it starts to tingle. You aren't sure if the ashes actually make it feel this way, or if it's psychological. But you feel the spot, like there is importance there. You wonder how long you will think about it.
But it doesn't bother you like you are sure it would bother some. Better your father live on in you, then get lost in the curve of a spoon, washed down the sink into the sewers. There is no loss this way. He is still part of you yet again.
The locket rests in the hollow of your throat. Your fingers touch it gently. He will travel with you now. You're sure he wont go everywhere with you, that you'll take him off and set him next to his ashes at times, but he will go some places with you. He will still go on adventures and see the world. And this soothes you in some small way.
You have a little jar of him up on your mantle. It's also plain, a jar you bought on a whim at the grocery store on the way to the lake where your family scattered his ashes. You didn't think you would want any until you saw the black box and lifted it up and it still had weight and substance. When you shook it, he rattled. You suddenly needed a piece of him to keep.
You have thought about it for a while now, but you finally do it. You take out the locket, and the jar, and the chain, and you find the smallest spoon you have. You clear off a spot on the table and unscrew the lid. You are careful careful careful not to get any ashes anywhere you don't want them. It was easier than you thought it would be. The locket is so small, you had visions of spilling him all over the table and having him fall in the carpet and knowing he would never be complete because of you.
But it doesn't go like that. The spoon picks up a miniscule part of him and taps him into the bed of the locket, and you close it. It snicks shut and it's done. No dad on the table and carpet.
But the spoon has a little residue on it. Not very much, just a fine powder that there is no way you'll be able to get back into him. You don't hesitate really, you just do what you'd been thinking about for a long time. You lick the spoon delicately, tasting the leftovers of his body.
You don't want to tell anyone. You're sure that this is the strangest impulse ever, but you've been wondering ever since you saw the ashes for the first time, what they would taste like. You don't know what you expected, but he is slightly salty, and almost tangy. The ash is so fine that there is no texture, no grit, just a place in the center of your tongue where it starts to tingle. You aren't sure if the ashes actually make it feel this way, or if it's psychological. But you feel the spot, like there is importance there. You wonder how long you will think about it.
But it doesn't bother you like you are sure it would bother some. Better your father live on in you, then get lost in the curve of a spoon, washed down the sink into the sewers. There is no loss this way. He is still part of you yet again.
The locket rests in the hollow of your throat. Your fingers touch it gently. He will travel with you now. You're sure he wont go everywhere with you, that you'll take him off and set him next to his ashes at times, but he will go some places with you. He will still go on adventures and see the world. And this soothes you in some small way.