I guess it’s no coincidence that the writing program I am developing and getting ready to launch in the next few weeks is called “Writual” (It’s a portmanteau: Writing ritual…but that’s next week’s column.) Observing rituals has been on my mind lately. I flew to Florida last week to bring my dad’s ashes back to the Memorial Garden at my parents’ church and where my mom’s ashes were interred 4 years ago. It was a trip I made on my own—at my insistence to the family—because I wanted to get it done. My Mom died in 2017 and my dad died five months ago. It was time they were back together.
As much as I wanted to get this done, though, planning this trip was…challenging. After caregiving for four years, I was out of practice doing much of anything alone. Arranging all the components for the trip to Florida—flight, airport parking, hotel, rental car—was way out of my comfort zone. Making this trip—one I would have to manage on my own since Angelo had no trouble planning a trip to Italy by himself a week earlier—took all of my dormant problem-solving skills. I constantly put off the task, until one day while trying to coordinate the trip with my cousin Diane, she let me know that the moratorium on having guests at her residence was lifted and she’d be able to put me up and loan me her car while I was there. The hotel and car rental frustration and cost magically disappeared.
And I did it. There were some – er-hiccups; I got to the parking place early—but nearly forgot to leave the keys. I was carrying Dad’s ashes with me, which was recommended by an airline agent, in Luca’s old school backpack, which was recommended by Angelo. As I hiked it through both long lines, first at the ticket counter to check my bag and then at security, I thought to myself, “wow, this is really heavy.” Of course I made a joke about it to Angelo—“It ain’t heavy, it’s my father.” With tons of time to wait, I made myself comfy at the gate—just the wrong gate. And when I dictated in a text to my friend, “I sat at the wrong gate until it was time to board, but other than that…so far so good,” it came out as: “…and I sat at the wrong gate until it was time to mourn the death of a man…” This was going to be some trip.
Actually, going through security triggered the emotion; I was ready—I had the death certificate tucked away so there wouldn’t be any questions. Then it went through the scanner and got pulled aside. I expected that, but then the TSA guy manhandled the box that they weren’t supposed to open. In all fairness, “the box” was inside another box with one of my mom’s scarves and placed inside a blue velvet bag, so it made sense that he had to get to the actual box so he could swab it. I stared through the glass at him, willing him to just be done with it as he dripped the purple solution onto the test strip. I watched as the solution formed into a little purple heart—a clear sign that Mom was letting me know we were okay. If I wasn’t so worked up, I might have grabbed my phone to take a picture of it. If I wasn’t so worked up I might have remembered that I don’t believe in signs.
But how could I not? I think that’s what rituals are, in a way—an observation of signs and customs and practices that we rely on and cling to in times of sadness and confusion and pain. They don’t always have to be for those who are hurt or sad; rituals make up the belief system of the healthy and successful, too. When I arrived at Diane’s, I placed the tokens that symbolized my trip on the dresser in my room—my parent’s cremation ID discs (which I didn’t even know I had until I opened “the box”), a small blue jar of my sister’s ashes to scatter at Siesta Key per her husband and son’s wishes, a family picture Diane gave me—my people, and my dad’s watch, which I’ve been wearing since he died, all atop that scarf of my mom’s. All the mementos had traveled separately, but gathering them together in one place settled me and made me feel that what I was doing was the right thing.
Before I left, I spoke with the minster of the church my parents belonged to. She was two minsters after the one who had presided over my mom’s service and interment, but she was happy to let us reunite my parents in the Memorial Garden. We met the day after I arrived and she outlined a “service” she had put together. I wasn’t really thinking “service” for what I was there to do, but it seemed fine and she had already announced it in the bulletin for Sunday. The plan was to go out to the Garden after coffee hour and say a few things and scatter the ashes. Then she said, “the minister who did your mother’s funeral still attends here, can I ask him to join us?” Of course, I told her—what a wonderful thread of continuity that would be. Then we talked about Scripture and reading one of Susie’s poems and maybe having a hymn and suddenly, we had a service. Nothing I had expected or planned of course, but again..it seemed right.
At the church that Sunday, memories began gathering with the tears that threatened behind my eyelids. Old friends greeted Diane and me with warmth and familiarity. Almost a dozen members—some of whom knew my parents and some of them who stayed to be supportive—joined us in the sanctuary for the service. We changed the setting from the garden because rain threatened, but since we were inside, we were able to stream it to the rest of the family who were points north and west. Even Angelo was able to join us from Italy. After the homily, the poetry, the singing, the tears I had been dabbing at finally broke free. I realized I had needed this particular ritual more than I knew—it was right to lay my dad to rest, with my mom, in the place they wanted to be together. We stayed a little longer afterwards than I anticipated with the minister, the former minister and some of the members who had known Mom and Dad. There was tons of food left from coffee hour and we laughed and told stories and shared memories—just as it should be.
The whole trip felt so right. At one point I told Diane, with whom in the past I had rarely spent more than an afternoon or a meal, that it felt like we had spent a week together every year for the last twenty years. The service came together organically, without too much fuss or planning…as if it simply appeared, Brigadoon-like, waiting for us to attend. When I went to the beach for Susie, there was a tree just at the entrance which was a perfect resting spot for her, looking very much like the Buttonwood Tree that represents her beloved bookstore.
After running a few errands the next day, driving Diane’s Civic back down Tamiami Trail to Venice, through a dramatic thunderstorm, all I could think of was that I wanted to call Mom and Dad and tell them about the wonderful trip this had been.
A wonderful essay, thank you.
How lovely and right and full of meaning. ❤️❤️❤️