I was taken aback by the bizarre.
Did I want Jeff’s thumbprint on a gold charm? That felt sort of creepy.
Considering the size of his hands, it’d have been a heavy weight, whether it ended up on a necklace or bracelet, tucked into a jewelry box, or just something I just had to hold onto. Nor did I want a vial of ashes to wear around my neck.
When offered a photo-wrapped honor candle, my dull reply was, “I don’t really need anything.”
Roger protested. He earnestly wanted me to have something; a memorial to hold on to. Because it was so important to him, I agreed that a candle would be nice.
There’s a beautiful, golden-orange horizon sunset behind Jeff’s photo, reminding me of the days we spent in Florida before and after my father passed. I’ve only lit it once; for a number of reasons that are not easily explained and will only ever make sense to me.
It remains nestled in a decorative, golden-jacquard mini-trunk, along with sympathy cards, newspaper clippings, funeral pamphlets, and a laminated bookmark type obituary, also in blue.
Since then, I’ve seen more. … interesting … offerings. Ashes swirled in glass globe paperweights, baubles with secret compartments, rings and pendants and cremation ‘diamonds.’ Some quite beautiful, truly – just not for me.
I didn’t choose a decorative urn, but was told I could do that later when I picked up the ashes.
I won’t assign them ‘Jeff’s ashes’. They’re not his. They’re not him. They are only ashes. That’s all.
Quote for the Week: