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For the past couple of months, I’ve been experiencing a strange phenomenon where everyone has been obsessing over The Ashes (cricket) while I’ve been counting down until July 15, the date we would scatter The Ashes (my grandmother).
In a weird way, this tale of two ashes created an unexpected and occasionally confronting sense of togetherness. Total strangers would approach me in the work kitchen, their attempts at small talk feeling like an intimate interrogation of my personal narrative.
Scattering ashes is not as poetic as it looks in the movies.Credit: Marija Ercegovac
Are you looking forward to the Ashes? (Um, in a way). How good are the Ashes! (Oh, OK). God, I hope we retain the Ashes. (No, we must scatter them. That’s the whole point.)
The scattering took place last weekend, the date marking just over a year since my grandmother passed away. Officially my family referred to it as The Final Farewell, but in private, I referred to it as Scatterday, the exact type of joke she would’ve scolded me for.
While the decision was made to host Scatterday at her favourite beach, a decision had yet to be made on who might carry out the scattering. Initially, I assumed the role would go to my mum or one of her siblings, but as we edged closer to the water, I noticed two things: they all seemed to be dropping back, and I was the only one in shorts.
By the time my uncle approached me, urn in hand, I had accepted what was happening and felt the kind of emotional stirring that comes with undertaking such an important duty. My uncle is a man of few words, but he caught my gaze and took a deep breath as if searching for the right thing to say: “You’re the only one in shorts.”
Like attempting a Scottish accent or trying to do a cartwheel, scattering ashes is one of those things you never really worry about doing until the exact moment you’re about to do it.
Wading through the water, it occurred to me there’s no real rule book on handling this situation, no commonly accepted method for elegantly depositing your grandmother in the ocean. In the movies, they always make it look so dignified; someone says something poignant, the ashes catch flight in the wind, and your loved one is whisked away for all eternity.
But out here in the shallows, I was unsure of which technique this very specific situation called for.
A straight-up dump felt rushed and not befitting of the ceremony, yet doing it by hand seemed strange and possibly unsanitary. For a minute, I toyed with a slow and solemn shake, the way you might dust a cake, but ended up settling on a measured release as if emptying a can of soup into a bowl.
Based on the applause from the beach, this seemed to do the trick, and now, feeling confident, I began dramatically spinning in a circle. Unfortunately, I didn’t think my showmanship through, and before long, I found myself engulfed in a ring of ashes.
At that same moment, the tide picked up, and soon, Grandma was lapping at my shins and nipping at my thighs (a sentence I never thought I’d write). The more I poured, the angrier the sea became, the sand beneath me shifting with each new wave. The applause had dissolved into what sounded like nervous laughter as I battled through the thick ashy soup.
For a brief second, I considered the possibility that I might be stuck in a rip, and this could become one of those stories on the 6pm bulletin: Adult grandson rescued by Westpac Chopper while honouring his grandmother’s last wish.
Thankfully, I saved us all the embarrassment of appearing on the national news by making it safely back to shore, where the nervous laughter had graduated to full-blown hysterics.
At the very least, I can be thankful I didn’t end up getting rescued by our friends in the Westpac chopper.
Without a doubt, my family was laughing at me, but I preferred to tell myself they were laughing with me. Laughing at how messy life is and how imperfect death is, how saying goodbye feels like such a big thing to get right, but it’s more fitting when it goes a little bit wrong.
As we walked back up the beach, my sister handed out memorial cards she had printed to mark the occasion.
On the front was a beautiful photo of my grandmother, popping out from a wave in the exact spot we had scattered her ashes. And on the back was a poem by E.E. Cummings that read, “For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.”
To me, it was a perfect tribute, made all the more perfect by a single comment from my uncle: “Feels a bit literal now, doesn’t it?”
Find more of the author’s work here. Email him at [email protected] or follow him on Instagram at @thomasalexandermitchell and on Twitter @_thmitchell.
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