The thought of disposing the body of your child, or a loved one that is not your child. Is a process that cleaves you right down the middle of your being. On one hand, you just do not want to do it. The last visage of their face, their smile, the way their eyes flashed when busting out into a laugh. The color of their hair, and how did it feel when you last ran your hand down the back of their head. Was it Soft? Course? Wavy or Straight? That silly dance, that made everyone laugh. And that feeling it left you, that all was well. And all will be well as long as they were never taken away, too soon, before you are ready…..as if you will ever be. And suddenly, your making the decision on what to do with their body. You know it is a shell, but you loved that shell with your whole being. And the thought that you must let it go, forever. Well, as I said, you just do not want to do it.
On the other, you know you must. So, lets make a decision. To bury? Or to Cremate? To some it comes down to religion, some it comes down to personal taste, family tradition? How do you want to spend the rest of the life you have without them. Going to a grave to visit? Knowing they are at rest perhaps miles away, underground. How about Cremation? Keep their ashes (which is really fine, white bones) within a jar at home. Even it means to burn every last physical aspect of them away? *sigh*
So, to Bury or to burn, that is your choice in the end. Because you cannot keep them, no matter how much you want to.
Personally, for our family. We chose cremation. It was heartbreaking for me, the thought of burning away every last bit of my son, whom I lovingly created in my womb. And to watch it grow and change over 19 years . But, a decision was made on the fact that none of us wanted the thought of him being alone in a grave, so many miles from home. He was a homebody. And though, we all know his spirit was free, we still loved, and treasured his frame. We wanted to keep him close. I did keep a lock of his hair, my one treasure that would never be taken away from me. To not be consumed by fire, or buried six feet below the earth.
I keep his ashes in a temporary box, and a lock of his hair in a pretty glass box on top of it. And stored in my heart, many lovely, funny, memories. And yes, as a parent who always wanted to do my best for him, regrettably, have a few bittersweet memories. Perfection and parenting generally do not share the same room.
I am learning though, through the book “Signs” by Laura Lynn Jackson. That my son wants me to be happy. Because he is happy. Their are so many stories about this extreme well being in the after-life. My sons best friends father, suffered a horrific heart attack, he actually died. But then was brought back to life again. In his meditation time now, he tries to recapture that supreme joy he felt in the after life. And me staying positive, and happy (no bitterness, or anger) helps the “Spirit” on the other side direct my life, and send me signs.
And when you are grieving a great loss. You WANT that contact. That evidence they are still there in some way. Listening in on your life. Lifting your spirit. Flashing a light or two in your home to say “Hey! I am here, and I can HEAR you” You will take any scrap of evidence you can get your hands on to feed that giant hole in your heart. Is it real? Is it phooey? A bunch of bologna? Well, I think that each individual has their own journey. And their own stories. And they can certainly tell them, and live them, or dream them back into their lives. It’s called comfort, and as humans, we need comfort. It gets us through.
At this point in time, I have had two signs that have demonstrated that my son is listening to me. Two. And am patiently waiting for more.