In the weird cubby-hole by the fireplace there is a decorative box. In the box are the ashes. The ashes are just a bit of the remains of my mother and father.
These remains don’t trigger any memories or nostalgia. They really are just ashes and don’t do much as far as representing Mom and Dad. But there are other things that bring vivid pictures or feelings to mind:
- Mom’s silver that she counted after every use and kept in impeccable condition
- Reels and reels of 8mm film that brings to mind my father holding the camera with that damn blinding light
- Drafting tools that Dad had in college long before computers
- Books from my childhood
These remains are museum pieces of quiet, gentle and peaceful lives. They leave behind pain and struggle. It’s not a lie. After all the sifting, the gold is left in the pan.