This Is Us
Ashes, Ashes Everywhere
On losing, and finding, my son
The first days after my son’s suicide were punctuated with question marks. Words uttered in library whispers by well-meaning relatives or friends hinted at the questions that always swirl around suicide. None of them were answerable, except to say that my son was fiercely private about his inner struggles. He didn’t want to burden anyone by sharing his darkness, so he hid it all behind smiles and laughter.
I preferred the questions I could answer, the simpler ones related to the business of death.
Who is writing the obituary?
I am, with input from my family.
Where do you want to publish it?
Online and in our home newspaper.
Burial or cremation?
Cremation, please.
We have a range of options for the body, from an unadorned box to the fanciest of caskets. What do you prefer?
The box suits him; he used to keep his clothes together with duct tape.
Do you want remembrance jewelry?
Jewelry? Oh, with ashes in them?
What kind of container do you want for the ashes? Where do you want to put them?
