(no subject)
It was a long day at work. I went in early and had lots of driving around to do, but I'm fairly glad it was that kind of work. It let me pick Marcus' ashes up at the vet.
I went in and mostly held it together as I met the receptionist. I told her my name and that I was here for Marcus. She nodded and went to get his urn, and in her place was left a little kitten on her chair. The closing door startled it a little, and I wiggled my finger at it, and it looked at me with big blue eyes. When the receptionist came back, she saw me fingerwiggling at the kitten, and lifted it onto the desktop, telling it to say 'hello'. I pet the kitten a few times, it was very cute. Then I looked over at what the receptionist had brought me.
It was a dark velvet bag. Inside was the "urn", a simple wooden box of a nice, light hardwood, neatly finished and sealed. The bottom had a label with Marcus' name, our names, the name of the crematorium and that his cremation had been private. On the bag was embroidered in gold, "Until we meet again at the Rainbow Bridge".
I picked it up and held it, looked at it. I wanted to say to the receptionist, "This is what unquestioning devotion became. This is what absolute love and friendship and total trust became. A few ounces of ashes in a box." But my throat seized, my jaw shook. I managed to whisper "thank you" and she got in a word of sympathy and a farewell before I hurried out with Marcus to the van.
I spent ten minutes or so holding the box and weeping into the hand towel that Marcus had died on. Then I got myself together and finished my day's work.
In retrospect, I'm glad I didn't manage to say what I had wanted to say at that moment, because it wasn't true. Marcus hadn't become just some ashes, just as when he was alive he wasn't simply a couple pounds of meat. He was a companion before and after, a presence in person when he was alive and a presence now as an impression on me and Karena and everyone he met, a gentle soul that had altered the courses of our lives, subtly but irreversibly.
When I got home, Karena gave me an envelope the vet's office had mailed. Inside was a clay disc with Marcus' name and his right front pawprint impressed into it, and a little plastic heart jewel. Along with it was a handwritten card from the vet, saying how sorry she was that we lost Marcus, and telling us that if we needed anything to call them. It was a kind gesture.
The clay pawprint rests in his bed under my desk, around which are his 7-up box he liked to slide around in and my coat that he liked to burrow into. The box is with Karena, in the bed under her desk.
I went in and mostly held it together as I met the receptionist. I told her my name and that I was here for Marcus. She nodded and went to get his urn, and in her place was left a little kitten on her chair. The closing door startled it a little, and I wiggled my finger at it, and it looked at me with big blue eyes. When the receptionist came back, she saw me fingerwiggling at the kitten, and lifted it onto the desktop, telling it to say 'hello'. I pet the kitten a few times, it was very cute. Then I looked over at what the receptionist had brought me.
It was a dark velvet bag. Inside was the "urn", a simple wooden box of a nice, light hardwood, neatly finished and sealed. The bottom had a label with Marcus' name, our names, the name of the crematorium and that his cremation had been private. On the bag was embroidered in gold, "Until we meet again at the Rainbow Bridge".
I picked it up and held it, looked at it. I wanted to say to the receptionist, "This is what unquestioning devotion became. This is what absolute love and friendship and total trust became. A few ounces of ashes in a box." But my throat seized, my jaw shook. I managed to whisper "thank you" and she got in a word of sympathy and a farewell before I hurried out with Marcus to the van.
I spent ten minutes or so holding the box and weeping into the hand towel that Marcus had died on. Then I got myself together and finished my day's work.
In retrospect, I'm glad I didn't manage to say what I had wanted to say at that moment, because it wasn't true. Marcus hadn't become just some ashes, just as when he was alive he wasn't simply a couple pounds of meat. He was a companion before and after, a presence in person when he was alive and a presence now as an impression on me and Karena and everyone he met, a gentle soul that had altered the courses of our lives, subtly but irreversibly.
When I got home, Karena gave me an envelope the vet's office had mailed. Inside was a clay disc with Marcus' name and his right front pawprint impressed into it, and a little plastic heart jewel. Along with it was a handwritten card from the vet, saying how sorry she was that we lost Marcus, and telling us that if we needed anything to call them. It was a kind gesture.
The clay pawprint rests in his bed under my desk, around which are his 7-up box he liked to slide around in and my coat that he liked to burrow into. The box is with Karena, in the bed under her desk.