Letting Go

On the floor in the back corner of my hall closet are two cartons holding the ashes of my late husband. I'm waiting until the time seems right to release them. I think I may be approaching that time.

Al died in August and, knowing his prognosis, had made the arrangements for his own cremation earlier that year. He didn't want me to have to deal with it after he'd died. I was the one who worked on keeping him alive; I could brook no concept that included his death. He, the more practical one, settled those matters in his usual direct approach. He had me come with him, so that I would know. We sat in leather chairs in the wood-panelled office at Riverside Memorial Chapel. Al did most of the talking, stating his plans to the sales rep who sat on the other side of the huge, highly polished desk.

No frills, Al said. Simple cremation. I remember the lush design of the office, meant to look like a gentleman's den from an earlier time. All that soft leather and polished wood. Heavy velvet drapes. I was glad it looked the way that it did because it complimented Al's ideals of refinement.

Al got the sales rep to talk a bit about how he'd gotten into this business. I didn't listen to the details. While he told his story, he asked if we wanted to reserve the chapel for a memorial service. No service, Al was adamant. I almost argued, but the reality of "an after" was beginning to make itself known to me. I remained silent.

I think maybe Al, who was such a social person, couldn't bear to think of our having a party without him. Not that they were parties, but my congregation held a special service the week he died. And months afterwards (to allow for our far-flung families to fly to New York) I arranged for a service to be held at the Ethical Culture Society.

After the papers had been signed and the check written, the sales rep handed Al the contract and telephone numbers for the nationwide network of funeral directors who participated in the program. All of the documents were folded into a heavy cream colored envelope embossed to look like leather. Al handed it to me. Keep it in a safe place, he said.

As we were leaving the office, Al asked the sales rep what size shoe he wore. I give the guy credit; he didn't miss a step and answered that he wore a size eleven. I have a beautiful pair of cordovan lace ups, Al said, hardly ever worn. Could you use them? I don't remember the man's story, the one Al elicited from him, but I think he said it was a hardship to have to wear a suit to work every day. Sure, he said, thanks. Al had wonderful taste and an extensive collection of shoes. I don't know if the man expected to see Al alive again, but that same week Al said he needed me to drive him by Riverside Chapel. He dropped off the shoes in their original box. I didn't know which one was doing the greater favor--Al for giving the man a good pair of dress shoes or the man for taking them.

After he died a friend drove me to pick up Al's remains apportioned into three plain cardboard boxes. I sent one of the boxes to his brother, who was visiting Maui at the time. He took it to the top of Haleakala and released Al's remains with prayer. Al loved Maui, where his youngest brother, Eddie, had lived with his family. Al and I had been married on Maui, and when Eddie died several years before Al got sick, the family held a similar ceremony atop the same place, Haleakala, the dormant volcano.

I'm not familiar with cremation; it isn't a part of my family's traditions. So I have to reach deep down inside to feel my way through this material letting go. It's coming up to four years since Al died. I don't have to release him all at once. Maybe this summer I'll give some of him up to the mountains in Columbia County, where we had such good times. And maybe this fall I'll let some of him go on the walkway by the East River, where he loved to run with our dog Star. I'm thinking that will be enough for now.