Burying a can
Today I put dessicated clover blossoms on my parents' grave. Some - what is it, seven months? after my father's death, we finally trekked up to Albany to bury his mortal remains: ashes in a shiny vessel that looked like a paintcan. Dave carried it around the house, Dad's house, before we set out at 7:30 this morning.
He thought of putting it in a more characteristic vessel, like a length of pipe or a gramaphone horn, thought of choosing a representative item from pop's beloved collections to be with him. But he didn't, couldn't choose I suppose. No one else did, and it doesn't seem to matter that much . Like displaying his body at the funeral in a suit he hardly ever wore, rather than a plaid shirt and patched jeans: a nice idea, but doesn't seem so much to matter. Glad we got the suspenders in, though.
I had wanted to look at Dad's ashes before they were put in the ground, but didn't; guess I was too embarrassed, didn't make a chance to do so. I want to see and to photograph everything, everything to do with this whole process. It makes it bearable, sort of, to part with things. My brother Dave told me that it looked like sand.
He thought of putting it in a more characteristic vessel, like a length of pipe or a gramaphone horn, thought of choosing a representative item from pop's beloved collections to be with him. But he didn't, couldn't choose I suppose. No one else did, and it doesn't seem to matter that much . Like displaying his body at the funeral in a suit he hardly ever wore, rather than a plaid shirt and patched jeans: a nice idea, but doesn't seem so much to matter. Glad we got the suspenders in, though.
I had wanted to look at Dad's ashes before they were put in the ground, but didn't; guess I was too embarrassed, didn't make a chance to do so. I want to see and to photograph everything, everything to do with this whole process. It makes it bearable, sort of, to part with things. My brother Dave told me that it looked like sand.