I am in Florida this month, enjoying my own private writer’s bootcamp for one. By the time my sons went back to school after Christmas, it was pretty clear to me that if I had any hope of making my book deadline in March, I was going to have to take drastic steps. So, my husband booked me a plane ticket, and here I am, holed up in my mother’s quiet guest room, with no distractions, no responsibilities, and nothing to do but write. My mom doesn’t care if I go for twelve hours without speaking. She has her own life. And here, alone with my laptop, I am finally making some headway. I write. I take a run. Write. Do yoga. Write some more. That’s about it.
Two years ago this month, my aunt Gloria, my mother’s only sister, died. The two of them were close. They saw one another several times a week, and I know my mom misses her terribly. This week, in honor of the anniversary of my aunt’s death, I have invited my first guest-blogger into this space, my mother. She doesn’t consider herself a writer, and yet when she showed me this piece, I knew I wanted to publish it here, to share the amazing woman who is my mother with all of you. I am so grateful to her for giving me a way to “retreat” for a while. And I’m proud to introduce her to you, my readers and on-line friends. The photo was taken the year Gloria died. That’s my mom, Marilyn Kenison, on the left.
BOXES
I held my sister’s hand as she took her last labored breaths and, with a final gasp, passed from this world to the next. It was the first time I had witnessed a death and somehow I expected more. But that was it. The end. No more. No more breaths, no more movement, just stillness.
“She’s gone,” I said, as much to myself as to her husband beside me. He was prepared and knew who to call: the hospice nurse to make the official pronouncement, the crematorium to take away the body, the children. Within an hour, my sister truly was gone. Gone not only from my sight, but from this life, forever.
A few days later, she was back. I went over to her house to help her husband sort through a few things and when I arrived he said, “Gloria’s in the bedroom.” And she was. Sitting on her bureau was a bright yellow shopping bag, and in the bag a plain, white, cardboard box. And in the box, the remains of my sister. I stood looking at that box and the incongruous yellow bag. With a bit of tissue paper and a bow on the handle it could have been carried with pride to any party.
The bag and its box remained undisturbed on the bureau for several months. Whenever I visited the house I would find a few moments to stand before it and wait – for a sign, a feeling, something to reach me from the other side to let me know my sister had safely arrived. But there was nothing, just the silent, inscrutable box.
Our parents are buried in a lovely cemetery in New Hampshire. Gloria had told me and her husband that she would like a marker placed on their grave to commemorate her life. It was arranged that when I left Florida to drive north for the summer, I would take my sister’s remains with me. I didn’t feel right about relegating the yellow bag and its contents to the trunk, so I set it on the back seat, next to my dog and his bed. Gloria loved dogs. I think she would have liked that arrangement.
Back in New Hampshire I assigned Gloria’s remains to the dining room, one of the most pleasant but little-used rooms in our house. A few months later, as I set the table for dinner guests, with profuse apologies I moved her to the hall closet. The dinner guests were her husband, Chet, and a lady friend. Although the family was comfortable with Chet’s newfound companion (at 83 you can’t wait too long to take the next step in life), my sisterly loyalty prevented me from serving the soup that evening in the presence of the yellow bag.
A granite marker with appropriate wording was placed on my parents’ grave later that summer. Together, Chet and I had removed a spoonful of powdery ash from the cardboard box and placed it in an empty film canister. The monument maker, a long- time friend, agreed to tuck the canister beneath the stone when he put it in place, even though such a burial was against the rules of the cemetery.
That left me with the rest of my sister’s remains and no instruction as to what to do next. Before she had become bedridden, Gloria and I had spent a week together at our family house on Bailey Island in Maine. We reminisced, ate lobster and ice cream, painted with a local watercolor group, and each evening made a ritual of pouring a glass of wine and watching the sunset. One of those sunsets was the most spectacular show of brilliant reds, oranges, and magenta either of us had ever seen. That particular summer sunset was something we talked about many times during Gloria’s remaining two years. It was our own special memory. I decided to leave Gloria’s ashes on Bailey Island, with a view of all the sunsets to come from now to eternity. This time the yellow bag shared the front seat with me, as Gloria and I made our final trip to Maine.
Each evening for a week I watched as dusk approached, waiting for just the right moment to release my sister’s spirit to the world, but the sky remained somber. Finally, it was my last night and although there was no sign of a sunset, I knew I must complete my mission. I sat on a rock and remembered my sister. It was easy to conjure the evening we had shared, in awe of one of nature’s greatest shows. I opened the box of ashes half expecting to hear one small, final sound, perhaps the sigh of her spirit passing through, but the night was quiet and the sky still gray. What to do next? The sheer volume of chalky white ash and what it represented overwhelmed me. I didn’t know how to proceed. Here, after all, was my sister. I felt responsible to her still, wanting to somehow imbue this moment, our last contact, with dignity and meaning. Through tears of frustration and grief I emptied the box over the grasses, rocks, and water. Small piles settled on the ground or floated away on waves. Suddenly the water was alive with light.
I looked up at the sky. The clouds were parted by a white brilliance. There was no color, no red or orange, but it didn’t matter. The light was pure and dazzling; the effect, breathtaking. I had the sign I had been waiting for.
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Oh Katrina, you have to tell your mother that this essay is just stunning! I have to control my emotions, as I read it, afraid I will so quickly go back to that sadness that dwells in my own heart, for my own losses.
It is apparent where your gift for writing came from. Such elegance, honesty and heart. I will re-live this essay many times in the days to come,and think of its images as I see a beautiful sunset. It’s the mark of amazing writing, that it lingers in the reader’s mind, for days and weeks to come.
Hooray, to your brave and beautiful mother. She looks so much like my own, who I miss so desperately, that I had to quickly turn away from the picture and go straight to your column.
Thank you for sharing her with us. Give her a hug, a nice long one, from me.
Judy
justonefoot.blogspot.com
BTW, a side, unrelated, yet related note…I still have a box of ashes, sitting in my closet, ready to be released. I have still, after eight years, not found the appropriate time or place.
They are not ashes of a person I loved, but a limb I got rid of, so I could have this better life. I congratulate your mother, for finding the right time and place, and in a timely manner to boot. It is not as simple as one would imagine.
Judy
Writing talent runs deep in the family! This was beautiful. Thank you both for sharing with us.
Your mom’s writing is as beautiful as yours, Katrina! What a lovely sharing of a very personal memory. Wishing you success and fulfillment at bootcamp.
Wow!
Absolutely poignant and touching. I still have half of my father’s ashes waiting to go upstate to where his parents and grandparents are buried. Your mother’s article has inspired me to make arrangements to take care of that. Thank you for this. We are all so earnestly waiting for your new book! I know it will be incredible and inspiring.
There are tears in my eyes and I’m sure in the hearts of all that read this piece. Your mom has done a beautiful thing with this memory – she’s created a link with all of us who have lost people we love. Bless you all!
What a beautiful piece of her heart your mother has shared with us all. She is, indeed, a writer and a true poet. Thank you for sharing her with us, and know that her words will stay with me for a very, very long time.
That was just a lovely tribute to her sister. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you, thank you, thank you. I have 2 sisters and hope that I could do the same for them if put in that situation. Your mother’s love for her sister came through her words and right into my heart. Just beautiful.
Your mother’s writing is so eloquent and thoughtful with a touch of playfulness. I can definitely tell where you get your writer’s “voice” from….I would have thought I was reading one of your essays! Thank her for this contribution and I hope she will be guesting again soon!!
What a lovely memory to have recorded. Thanks for sharing it with us.
Simply beautiful.
Just breathtaking! I find that anything you post is worth stopping, what I am doing, sitting down and reading. Your posts always resonate with me, and it is stunning to read your Mom’s entry and realize so clearly where your gift for the English language and the human spirit comes from. Thank you for sharing this with me.
This brings back my memories of spreading my father’s ashes. Like your mother, the ashes sat in my house for several months after my father passed. My mother didn’t want to keep them in her apartment and we were waiting for my brother to come north. My father wanted his ashes spread at the top of the hayfield on our 60 acre farm. My brother and his wife arrived that summer and we all climbed onto one of the hay wagons. My husband towed us up the hill (Mom never could have walked it). The breeze picked up as my brother spread the ashes…..we all felt so happy that we finally could complete one of his last wishes.
Thank you to your Mom and you for sharing this wonderful piece of writing. It’s amazing how soothing it is to the soul to write and remember.
What a beautiful post and a heart felt tribute to your aunt.
Katrina, you must now know where you get your gift of writing. Your mother’s piece was beautiful. When I read her piece, so many emotions for me as I remembered the last time I saw my dad. He was in the hospital and I knew he would not leave the hospital. I had to leave him as I had to get back home to my family. As I was telling him I loved him he squeezed my hand very tight. With my mom sitting next to me, I told my mom, “Dad is so strong, he is squeezing my hand so tight”. As I told my dad before leaving ”
Dad, mom is all moved and in a good place, so dont worry”. When I got in my car to drive home, it hit me. My dad was telling me goodbye when he squeezed my hand so tight. My mom was safe and he knew he could leave this earth knowing we would all take good care of his wife of 62 years. My mom said her goodbyes that night and my dad died the next morning. He was at peace. Katrina, thank you once again for sharing.
Your mom is, indeed, a lovely writer! (The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!) The Sun is my favorite literary magazine and they have a regular feature call “Reader’s Write.”
They invite submissions from their readers loosely framed around a subject. Interestingly, last month it was “Boxes”! Your mom’s essay would have been perfect for inclusion! Thanks so much for sharing!
And I also can’t wait to read your new book!!
Katrina, please let your Mother know her words are beautiful. As someone who has ridden with her father’s ashes in her front seat, I could so relate! My brother just can’t let my father go, so he sits in a closet in my brother’s apartment. I hope to someday set him free. When I go to Compo Beach in Westport, CT, by myself, I sit and think about those who are now gone and get a sense of peace. Something about the water, nature, the peace. Thinking of you all and so look forward to your next book.
With tears in my eyes, a heavy heart and a small smile on my face, I read your Mom’s beautiful words about this sacred time with her sister.
I have my dear friend Trish’s ashes upstairs, in my closet, next to where I get dressed every day, not being able to do anything with this precious grey dust.
Your Mom’s words have inspired me and I think after 8 years, I am ready to spread her ashes and let go. Thank you.
What a perfectly lovely piece. As many have said before me, your mother certainly is a writer…
Beautiful story. Thank you for sharing this heartfelt remembrance.
Best wishes to you and your mother during this time you have together.
Thanks to both you & your mom for sharing this lovely, moving tribute. And best of luck with your next book!
I’m taking my own bootcamp next week to analyze my life, do some intense work, and gaze at the sea.
You tell your mama that she IS a writer!
Looking forward to your next book. Mittenstrings was read over and over when the children were younger.
What a beautiful story. I have chills after reading it. Thank you for sharing it with us.
Your mom is a beautiful writer and tells a wonderful story.
My sister wanted her ashes put in a beautiful river and since she loved her time in England, we took her back and put her in a river near Oxford. She is on our parents’ marker so we can always find her (willow-the-wisp that she was 😉
The guest blog was beautiful. And relatable. I had a similar experience with the ‘letting go’ of my father’s ashes. A harrowing, but in the end, peaceful and loving experience. Thank you to your mom for sharing this deeply personal act.
Thank you.
Thank you for sharing your mom and this lovely moment with us.
With appreciation for sharing such a personal and perfectly lovely story.
Enjoy your time together…even the silence.
Thank you for sharing your beautiful story. Peace to you and your Mother.
You were already on my mind Katrina, yesterday when I was watching a brilliant production of Our Town in my post-modern town, LA.
This post is not about good writing, which you and your mom can do alright—it’s about the eternal poetry of light and spirit that even Shakespeare and Thornton Wilder can, however deftly, merely point to. And what’s to be done with the rest of us? As The Gift of an Ordinary Day and the wisdom of your mom, and your grand-parents, and your aunt, and the chalky ash and the clouds parting and the light streaming.
I guess, here we are, and it’s an agony and a blessing that we can barely manage when we fully open our hearts to it. And if we can commune around this, in the plain-speak splendor that your mom brings, like the Stage Manager in our very own virtual town, maybe we can live with the sort of spirit the old poets most implore.
Happy writing, happy times with mother.
I, too, thoroughly enjoy reading your blogs and appreciate the opportunity to read this one written by your mother. It so reminds me of the passing of my own sister (and best friend), my trip to Florida with her remains, “to be thrown in the water on a windy day” (her instructions!), the unusual visitation of two pelicans stopping in mid-air to look back at me as they flew overhead…I miss her so and know just how your mother feels. Give her a hug for me.
Your mom is most surely a writer! What an utterly beautiful piece of writing.
Your Mother IS a writer. A beautiful writer.
Thank you for sharing her words.
Beautifully written essay on love and loss. Appreciation and condolences to you and your mother.
This was a beautiful story, and I would like to thank you for sharing it. Your Mom was a good sister.
This moved me so much and Bruce said it much more poetically than I can now. It’s always shocking to me how close we live to paradise and how near heaven is. I am so grateful to your mom for reminding me of the light.
what an absolutely beautiful post. i agree with everyone that wrote above. your mother is a wonderful author as are you and this also reminded me of the day my aunt passed away. thank your mom for sharing her story with all of us
Dear Katrina, It is with heavy heart that I respond to your mother’s tribute to my only love forever. I will never forget that night that she sat up with Gloria and woke me to tell the end was near. It is a beautiful piece of writing, one that Gloria would be very proud of. Every day I truly have a period when I look at Gloria’s gorgeous paintings and realize how much she was a part of my life. Gloria was unforgetable to all who knew her, her smile would light up a room because it was genuine and heartfelt. She was a wonderful wife, loving mother, exceptional teacher, talanted artist, a true lady. Thank you and Mal for this tribute to Gloria, I love you both, Chet \ ‘
Thank you Marilyn! I can see where your daughter gets her literary talent. Your story is touching and a bit comical (at times, if I may say, but just the right amount to provide comic relief to a painful situation). My paternal grandmother was everything to me, a parent, a mentor, a refuge, an angel really. When she was 92 I had to let her go. I know what it’s like to expect an orchestra and God’s light to commemorate the moment, only to be surprised that it takes time for the beauty of life’s transition to reach those left behind. Now, years later, I do get those dream visits I so wanted right after her passing. They are wonderful. She rarely speaks, but she smiles a lot with open, embracing arms. She is still with me. Be patient, and Gloria will visit too.
Oh. I think your mother is a writer. I’m sure of it, actually.
Thank you both…
I just love visiting your blog…to be entertained, enlightened, and (sometimes) to enjoy a good cry. This visit was no different. So many emotions and thoughts played out in my mind and heart as I read. Thanks for sharing…I look forward to your next book…work hard and enjoy your visit with your mom.
Beautiful.