Last Wishes

Charlie and I happened to be in Seattle last week, and decided to take the car ferry over to Bainbridge Island. We found two comfortable seats with a table between them at the very back of the boat, where we could watch the Space Needle disappearing slowly out the huge picture window . It was a cold day – normal for Seattle – and very few people braved the deck. By the time we were ten minutes offshore, it was empty. We sipped our coffee and stared at our large wake and the seagulls following us. We were the only ones sitting in our small section of seats. It was lovely.

Suddenly a small group of people with a large shopping bag appeared on the deck: A gray-haired, sturdy-looking woman in her 70’s, and two younger women and a man in their 40’s. They were all fussing over the shopping bag. Each of them removed a long-stem pink carnation from it, and the man removed a very large plastic bag. It appeared to be heavy and awkward as he struggled to hold it over the stern. A puff of white dust rose up and back for several seconds as the bag emptied. The group had a long, four-way hug, and then took turns casting their flowers into the sea.

I had the feeling of being somewhere I shouldn’t be, of invading this family’s private sorrow. Charlie and I looked at each other. “Do you think it’s a dog?” he whispered, though there was no way they could have heard us. “Way too many ashes,” I said, shaking my head. We were both mesmerized; we could not look away. A bottle and four shot glasses came out of the shopping bag. The glasses were filled, raised, and thrown back – twice. “They’re toasting the dead guy,” I whispered to Charlie. “How do you know it’s a guy?” he asked. “Women don’t want to be scattered a sea,” I said, and immediately regretted it. I would jump all over him if he said that.

“Remember Duffy’s memorial service?” I asked him, and we both smiled. We’d scattered our Golden Retriever’s ashes in the pond at the edge of our property in Cape Cod. It was where he’d spent the happiest hours of his life, thrashing around in the shallow water after schools of tiny fish, his heavy, sopping wet tail wagging a constant spray of fetid water. After we scattered his ashes, our daughter, Becky, Charlie and I each said a little something. Me: “There won’t be any thunder storms where you’re going, Duff.” Becky: “You’re allowed on the sofa and you can get someone to scratch your tummy all day long.” Charlie: “Lay off the Burger King wrappers, Buddy.” Then we each threw him a Milk Bone.

There had also been a lovely service for our cat about ten years earlier. We buried him in his favorite place on our property where it met the woods and the mouse hunting was especially good. It was the day before Thanksgiving, a light snow was falling, the sky was gray, and several of the neighborhood children joined our family for the service shortly after the school bus dropped them off. Becky recited her favorite cat poem entitled “Sandpaper Kisses”, and then proceeded to read the entire Puss & Boots. She did not seem to notice that most of the shivering mourners, including Charlie and me, had begun to drift off. Her best buddy from next door hung in there with her until the end.

My thoughts turned to my own wishes, which have been a work in progress for many years. I’m of the opinion that it’s never too soon to start planning your own Memorial Service, and had long ago discussed with my friend Carlene, gardener extraordinaire, being scattered in her compost heap. It occurs to me now, however, that since Carlene is older than I am, I’m not sure what will become of her compost heap if she pre-deceases me, so I should probably revise that plan. I still love the idea of my cremains getting folded in with all that rich organic ooze, and coming back up the next season with the flowers and vegetables. Then I remembered that my daughter and the families of my beloved step-sons all have compost heaps. Right then and there, I instructed Charlie to divide my ashes between any or all of them who didn’t find the idea too creepy. He promises to do this, but I’m not sure I trust him to remember. I’m considering a website for my instructions, so I can be sure they won’t get lost. Something with a catchy URL, like http://www.joansdead.com/. I think they can remember that.