This is a link up to Alphabet Thursday, the letter H:
It should have felt harrowing. Combing through her mother’s cremains.
It didn’t. Because she was as focused as only one can be combing fingers through ash seeking out the tiny bone that hadn’t been pulverized – and finding it.
She felt a rush of satisfaction, the thrill of finding a ring, some prized possession, lost at the beach…
And ash is a bit like sand — all grit.
Though finally nothing like sand; so fine, the ash that spilled on the kitchen table became ingrained in the wood as she tried to divide up the cremains. Her mother had been returned to her in a black plastic box the size of a small office wastebasket.
She would bury her mother. In the black box which would be lowered down into the columbarium via a black net.
But she would keep some of her in the old brass cigarette box she remembered from her childhood, engraved with tree branches. The cigarette box that sat on her parents’ coffee table back when she was small and they both still smoked.
Though human ash tastes nothing like sand.
She licked the tip of one finger. It tasted at once both sour and sweet.
The taste of her mother…
No. Harrowing was not in the seeking. It was in the tasting.
And in the holding. She cupped the tiny bone in her palm.