Scattering the Ashes
My grandpa's ashes sat on the sill for the traditional two days before my grandma scattered them, and then they kept sitting there. Five months passed. My grandma would move around the house, her hands over her ears, moaning softly as the voice of her dead husband tormented her. It was winter! She had not scattered the ashes!
Finally, she could stand it no longer. She went outside into the garden and scattered the ashes across the newly-tilled soil. She stood for a long time, until darkness began to creep across the sky, around 9 o'clock, she says. Her heart heavy, she finally went inside and up to bed.
She stepped into the bedroom and gasped. There, on her husband's side of the bed, was the groove of his body, as if he'd just been lying there. She knew she'd made the bed that very morning, and it had been two whole months since he'd passed. With trembling hands, she called me up, and I came over right away.
We searched the house. In the bathroom, we found my grandpa's shaver and foam on the edge of the sink.
My grandma gasped. "I threw these out weeks ago," she said, her voice shaking.
Three weeks later, I was expecting a call from her that never came. We showed up at her house and found her, curled up next to the indent of her husband's body in the bed, her eyes closed, a peaceful smile on her face.
