The Box of Dad

My Dad passed away almost 3 years ago now. It was sudden and unexpected but Dad had let us all know that when he died he wanted to be cremated. So we had him cremated. Dad was a pretty simple guy and incredibly frugal. Some may even say cheap. I always thought of him more as practical. And it doesn't get any more practical than cremation, really. It's affordable, quick, and hardly takes up any space.

Dad didn't want us spending any money on some fancy urn so when I met the funeral home director after the service to claim Dad's ashes he handed me a plain brown cardboard box weighing about five pounds. That was all I had of my Dad to physically carry away with me that day. I couldn't help but think that Dad would be pretty impressed with the fact that I was just toting him around in a box. I wasn't really sure what the protocol from there was. When I missed my Dad was I supposed to talk to the box? What do those ashes look like? Are they really Dad's ashes? So, with those questions and new feelings of grief weighing on my mind I delivered the box to my Mom's house.

Mom, understandably so, was beside herself with grief. There was a house full of people that had brought food (We're Southerners. That's what we do when someone dies. We eat.) and were offering their condolences. I asked Mom what do with The Box of Dad and she just kind of absently waved towards the back of the house and said something along the lines of "Just put it in the closet in his room.". Which I did. And that is where Dad's ashes have stayed to this day.

I've only gone into that box once. And that was to collect some of Dad's ashes that we were taking to his hometown to scatter on his mother's grave. I really didn't know what to expect when I went into that closet. It had been about 5 months since the funeral service and I hadn't been in there since the day I'd first put the box in it. Mom had put Dad's guns in the closet along with an assortment of his miscellaneous belongings and some of his clothes. The first thing I noticed when I opened that closet was that I could smell my Dad.

That had happened one other time. I had gone with Mom to their old house in our hometown (The house Mom was in now was the new one Dad had bought for her right before he passed away. They were going to start fresh in a new town not too far from their beloved grandchildren. Funny how things don't always work out as planned.) and had gone over to Dad's "huntin' truck" to see if it would start. I opened the door to that old truck and Dad wafted out. I just wanted to sit in that truck and breathe deeply. I turned the key in the ignition and the truck didn't start. I got out, closed the door, walked into the house, handed Mom the keys, said "It's dead.", and walked away. She understood.

So, back to the closet. There I was, once again, enveloped in the fragrance of my Father. And it was nice. Nice and familiar. I picked up that cardboard box, opened it, and undid the twist tie that was holding the plastic bag shut containing Dad's ashes. There was a part of me that felt like I was rubbing a magical genie lamp. What if the ghost of Dad suddenly materialized out of the box? I dipped in a spoon and began shoveling ashes into a tupperware container. At that time another question crossed my mind: I wonder what these taste like? Don't worry. I didn't taste them. But it did pop into my head. Grief does strange things. Or maybe I'm just strange. Or both. And then I started to giggle. I mean, in my mind, it really didn't get any sillier than tranferring Dads ashes from a cardboard box into some tupperware. I was thinking it was an upgrade. Who else keeps their dead dad in a box? Who else travels with their dad's ashes in a tupperware container? And then another thought crossed my mind. What if I got pulled over and the cop wanted to know what's in the tupperware? "My Dad, officer."

As the years have passed Dad's death has been easier and easier to cope with. Don't get me wrong. I miss him every day. And I know I will until the day I myself die. But it's partially true what they say about time. It may not heal all wounds but it definitely softens the blow. It leaves one with fond memories where sadness and anger once were. It's gotten to the point now where my brother and I can make comments like "Dad would be rolling over in his closet if he knew.". And then we have a good laugh. Dad would appreciate it. He had quite the whacky, twisted sense of humor. As a matter of fact, I think it's time I go back into that closet and have a talk with that ol' cardboard box.

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