I see my fist in front of me, outstretched arm, thumb on the outside. I see my wrist and hand turned sideways, sand; or ashes, but sand please slipping through my fingers. That’s my thought at midnight on Halloween and yes, it is scary to be inside my mind and to know the horrors I think of and dare not write of until now. I am shocked and found out. I waited until the day was done.
Why, why, what was it that brought the thought of her ashes to mind? I know I want a different urn or maybe to take her ashes to sea, all of them, not some. But, I can’t and my mind floats to my outstretched hand and the sand, sifting, diffusing, disseminating her. The mother and daughter I saw this morning, calling my dad because I can. She can’t.
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I know what it was. One day she was here and then, she vanished. Like magic. She’s in my mind like magic and I play tricks on myself with thoughts of ashes and sand and I lie. I act like it’s okay, it’s okay. She’s okay. I feel like I’m rocking, incessantly, she’s okay. I’m not okay. I wonder what character she'd be this Halloween?
Halloween is Taylor’s favorite holiday. I have her favorite costumes hanging in my closet. I move them around with my clothes. I finally held her costumes in my outstretched hand, walked into the guest room and placed them in the closet. A betrayal or healing; it depends on the day.
Again, there is no preparation for this pain and I thought I have been “doing great, moving on, honoring her…” The pain is immense because I can see her getting ready and finding shoes and laughing, making a mess of the bathroom with a friend, me on the other end of the camera. One day she was here. Sand slipping through my fist.
I want to make something to hold her ashes. I don’t want this urn from the funeral home. That day forever to be my honor, my horror, our hell. I want to make a thing with some of her seashells, maybe. I want to create something or buy something that would be funny to her and I don’t want any of this.
During a recent and rare shopping trip, I saw a mom shopping with her daughter. She called to her daughter, “Honey, I don’t see anything here.” I said, “Honey” under my breath and I smiled and I thought hard about all of the kids I call “honey” and I can’t talk to her anymore for the rest of my life.
Have I been doing better or faking it for as long as I could? I don’t usually cave under this sand. The waves calmed for a while and I had some peace. I ignored so much of what I saw everyday, I watch myself choose clothes and I don’t have her anymore to ask if she likes or wants a shirt or send her a text with a reply that usually consisted of, “Ew. Get me some Taco Bell, please. K, thanks.”
I feel so bad thinking of my daughter, no more, no more. Her body is her ashes. How is that okay for me? I have to honor the pain because I’m sick of ignoring it and pretending people are living a life I've never been jealous of right there in front of me and I can’t call her and I can’t do it over and I can’t feel her body or her hair. I can’t jump clear across the couch to hug her goodbye or take a photo of her on her favorite holiday of Halloween and I can’t do so much with her and that will never go away.
I had to save myself. I had to do it alone and I was left alone to heal somewhat because that’s how it works. I had to hold my head high and be happy for mothers and daughters or sons and fathers. I’m thrilled to see my son soon. I cannot live without my daughter and feel this magnitude of pain every day, I had to choose to ignore it, divert the love to others, show love to others, be grateful for so much.
That random cry, though. Those perverted thoughts of sand that I know in my mind are her ashes. I had a daughter one day and the next she was no more in my physical world. Sometimes, I must be allowed to sit with that. I can think of her evermore clearly now, the shape of her wrist twisting her hair, sweat pants, I can see her face more clearly now.
I sit with her in mind when we discuss accommodations in schools. I sit with her when I hear a baby cry in a store (a hallmark tradition for a parent to shop, ignoring her screaming baby) for us. I sit in it all day, every day and sometimes I feel like I need a baseball bat and a tree to scream and to beat and to grow hoarse screaming, pleading, demanding a why. Why.
I’ll be back to almost normal tomorrow until I see my dad for his birthday. I’ll hold my head low in shame as she will not hand him a card and hug him, her face cradled in his hand, head on his chest, his covering arms around his girl. I know I’ll feel guilt and shame for her passing to her new life. I’ll let it go more easily and swiftly this time.
I just don’t know what to do about her ashes. Maybe I’ll get lucky and keep my rage and pain inside me tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. I’ll be happy for a week or weeks because I will see the people I love, talk with my son, and feel gratitude. This pain should sift through me like the sand sifting through my hand. I allow it, blow it off my fingers, and live another day.
