A Final Journey With Mom

Arriving at the beach at about 10:30 in the morning, we looked like everyone else seeking a little relaxation before the rain set in. We had beach chairs and a blanket, sandwiches and soda, books to read and two plastic containers.

As we sat facing the ocean, images came in a decidedly different form. Sitting with my mother one last time, I thought of her career as a nurse and how she could give scared children shots they never felt because of the sincerity of her smile and her soothing voice. I thought about how she and my dad, in retirement, drove cancer patients to appointments. I remembered her attempts to teach a man in his 60s how to read, and how she laughed at herself as a teacher since he seemed more interested in just talking rather than actually reading. I thought of how much her faith meant to her and how she and my father spent hours praying for all sorts of folks, many of whom they had never met. I thought of how proud she was of her three sons and her grandchildren.

The coast was clear, or at least our small part of it. A gap developed in the parade of people walking along the edge of the water. My daughter, whose face looks beautifully like my mother's at the same age, carried the Tupperware with me toward the water. All that was left of her, at least physically, was now to be scooped out to meet the cold and swirling water.

One strange final thought hit me as the ashes turned the water around us into a gray-green soupy mix. What if the mix of water and the dry ashes caused my mother to reassemble? How was I going to explain that to the authorities?

Never one to draw attention to herself, my mother drifted off, taking one last eternal swim. My regular Sunday call to my father the next evening reported our success. He expressed his thanks for fulfilling his wishes and we agreed that my mom would have loved the idea of being "buried" at sea.

The opportunity to do this three years after my mother's death provided a new opportunity to remember her without the immediate sadness that a passing brings. All my irrational thoughts of arrest had given way to warm and positive memories. It turned out to be a comforting farewell.

Hakes lives in Danvers, Mass.

© 2007