I ran out of hot water, so I had to take a break from doing the dishes anyway
Last night, at Near Fatal Injury Park (our pet name for Cat Hollow Park because of an unfortunate merry-go-round incident) Josh and I both let go the contents of the bottles Rand sent us. There was quite an assembly of people who loved Mike. All of us managed to get on the merry-go-round and ride until we all felt sick, then played on the swings, Sandy and Cici snapping pictures throughout, and then it was time.
Josh elected to climb the big tree to let his go, so I couldn't see his face, but most of the girls there were crying and taking pictures at the same time when I emptied the contents out next to the merry-go-round. I wasn't. Not because I'm hugely tough or anything, but because the ashes didn't signify anything for me. The only reason I wanted to scatter them was because I couldn't think of a less-disrespectful way to be rid of them. And I needed to be rid of them. They were creepy and gross.
Again, please don't mistake me for desensitized. I was listening to Frightened Rabbit, doing the dishes, crying into the sink not five minutes ago because
a)"Head Rolls Off" is about a young man accepting his death,
b)Mike would have freaking loved the band and
c)there is just so much I won't get to share with him.
The ashes, for me, just didn't mean anything. His glasses, on the alter at his funeral next to his Wizard-of-Oz snow-globes, that meant something. That broke me down as soon as I walked into the church. There was something of who he was in that. In that, there was the twitch of his cheek as he hands-free-adjusted the black plastic frames on his face before taking a photo or because one hand had a Dr Pepper and the other had a cigarette or just because he was too damn lazy. There was him skipping down the hall singing "We're Off to See the Wizard" on the way to photo class or humming the Wicked Witch of the West's theme when Marge pulled up in the driveway at night or screeching "I'll get you, my pretty" across the high school cafeteria after Melissafent. But the ashes were just part of a container for one of the most beautiful, fucked-up, ego-maniacal, brilliant souls the world could have handled. It's the man inside the container that I miss. If anything, those ashes should have gone to Lynn, to where that body came from, to the person who carried it inside her own. There was just no way I could have sent her something so cruel and cold as part of that burned-up flesh, so I chose to take him to the park, instead.
Josh elected to climb the big tree to let his go, so I couldn't see his face, but most of the girls there were crying and taking pictures at the same time when I emptied the contents out next to the merry-go-round. I wasn't. Not because I'm hugely tough or anything, but because the ashes didn't signify anything for me. The only reason I wanted to scatter them was because I couldn't think of a less-disrespectful way to be rid of them. And I needed to be rid of them. They were creepy and gross.
Again, please don't mistake me for desensitized. I was listening to Frightened Rabbit, doing the dishes, crying into the sink not five minutes ago because
a)"Head Rolls Off" is about a young man accepting his death,
b)Mike would have freaking loved the band and
c)there is just so much I won't get to share with him.
The ashes, for me, just didn't mean anything. His glasses, on the alter at his funeral next to his Wizard-of-Oz snow-globes, that meant something. That broke me down as soon as I walked into the church. There was something of who he was in that. In that, there was the twitch of his cheek as he hands-free-adjusted the black plastic frames on his face before taking a photo or because one hand had a Dr Pepper and the other had a cigarette or just because he was too damn lazy. There was him skipping down the hall singing "We're Off to See the Wizard" on the way to photo class or humming the Wicked Witch of the West's theme when Marge pulled up in the driveway at night or screeching "I'll get you, my pretty" across the high school cafeteria after Melissafent. But the ashes were just part of a container for one of the most beautiful, fucked-up, ego-maniacal, brilliant souls the world could have handled. It's the man inside the container that I miss. If anything, those ashes should have gone to Lynn, to where that body came from, to the person who carried it inside her own. There was just no way I could have sent her something so cruel and cold as part of that burned-up flesh, so I chose to take him to the park, instead.