ashes to ashes

I've just picked up Journey's cremated remains from the vet's office.

I'd had a fairly good week. My sadness had been neatly outweighed by huge relief – that she was no longer suffering, and that my own life was no longer hostage to her illness (even though I've felt rather selfish for admitting that).

The remains always come back sooner than you think, and before you're prepared for them.

Nanook's ashes came back several days after he died. Thankfully, a neighbor works close to the vet's office, and she volunteered to retrieve the package for me. Less than a week after he died, I had his urn in my hands. I set it down on the coffee table and opened it. I just stared at the ashes for a few minutes, trying to get my head around the fact that not too long previously, this had been my best friend. I reached into the urn and ran my fingers through the dust. It was more powdery and less gravel-like than I would have preferred. Still, I could identify bits of bone and teeth.

I waited more than a month to perform his memorial service, in a grove of trees near my home -- a place I like to go sit when I need solitude and guidance. I'd written a special ceremony for him and invited a few friends to join me on Halloween / Samhain / Los Dias De Los Muertos, the traditional day of honoring and remembering the dead. Journey was there with us. I sprinkled some of Nanook's ashes on the breeze at the close of the ritual. The majority of his ashes remain in the urn, on top of the bookcase in my bedroom. I'm not sure I really want to keep this, but I've not yet figured out what to do with it.

And so today, a week after Journey passed (almost down to the exact minute), I was back at the vet's office. I'd packed up what was left of Journey's "diabetic supplies" -- unused insulin, syringes, and the sharps container -- and brought them down to be donated to the next family to have a pet diagnosed with diabetes. Then, the receptionist handed me an oddly cheerful gift box. This is what they're using now instead of ceramic urns.

I carried my dog-in-a-box outside and down to my car, and then burst into tears. There's nothing like the finality of the physical proof of your loved one's death.

Journey's birthday -- a day somewhat arbitrarily chosen as her birthday back in 1997 -- is next Friday, when she would have been ten years old. Incidentally, this was also the randomly-selected birthday for Nanook, who would have been thirteen. That seems like a good day for another memorial service. In the meantime, I'll have to make more room atop my bookcase for Journey's box.