Laid to Rest
Wherein my mother’s ashes are inurned in her final resting place
One Wednesday last month, I left behind all the cares of daily living — work, housework, finances — to travel with my husband to the place where I was raised. I told casual work acquaintances that I was going to visit my dad. One or two closer friends knew that, while I was looking forward to seeing him, the timing of the visit was all about placing my mom’s earthly remains into a niche in an historic cemetery in a valley in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountain Range.
Mom died last December, more than six months ago. Honestly, the fact that she was cremated at all came as a surprise to me. My brother, sister and dad all agreed that she expressed such wishes in the months before she passed. They were on the spot, so to speak, and saw her often. I am the one who moved away. And so it was, on the day of her funeral, as the hearse bore her coffin away, the funeral director told us proudly that she was going straight to the crematorium after all. He seemed pleased. It was a Saturday, and she was supposed to be returned to the funeral home to await a Monday appointment. But there was some scheduling mishap and a slot had opened that very day.
It didn’t seem to bother anyone else at the time that the cremation was taking place at the same moment that we were partaking in a funeral repast in her honor with extended family and long-time friends. But it was on my mind the whole time. We were partying while she burned.
My dad has been ill ever since, in and out of the hospital and in-patient rehab twice since then. He is just strong enough, and the weather is nice enough now, that we can place her in the niche I purchased for her all those months ago. I initially was all for waiting until spring, so the weather would be more seasonable for my dad. The columbarium is not enclosed in any way, and I didn’t want him catching his death of cold. I had no idea we would be waiting until summer.
There was a surprising amount of decision-making involved in choosing a burial urn. Two finishes were considered, and there was quite a large price difference. Considering we will never see it again, excepting once more when the niche is opened to receive my father’s remains, I considered it a no-brainer to buy the cheaper, still nice-looking one. Then there was discussion on the font style for the engraving on the urn, and the style of cross to be engraved. There will also be an exterior engraved plaque, but the fonts on all the niches are predetermined and uniform.
On the day of, the weather cooperated, and we immediate family gathered, along with my mother’s best friend of seventy years and her husband, for the brief niche-side prayer service. We all grouped around the open niche, some of us sitting in provided chairs, the rest standing. My brother was deputed to carry the urn from the undertaker’s car, up the little path to the niche. Mom would have liked that. My father eschewed his wheelchair and insisted on walking up the path with his walker. I found myself then, as on the day of the funeral, focused on him not falling over. It helps to deflect the immediate grief. At least he sat for the service.
A deacon, who has known my parents for many years, was dispatched by the parish to take the service. He gave a brief talk, in which it was evident that he took time to refresh his memory with her obituary. I appreciated that personal touch. A few words and prayers and the niche was closed.
And so it is done. There she rests until the trumpet blows.