Dad's ashes
This is the story of my sister collecting my dad's ashes from the funeral home. It is told by her.
I went over on the bus to collect dad, with Jesse in his pushchair. It had occurred to me that I would need something to bring him home in, something with a flat bottom.... All I could think of was a gift bag. I rummaged through our stash in the under stairs cupboard but the only one I could find that was the right sort of size was a sparkly Santa bag. I looked at it briefly before deciding that it would be fine.
It wasn't the nicest of days; rainy and cold and we were both bundled up. Before heading to the Funeral Director, whose office is by the bus stop, I went to do some shopping in tesco. Perhaps more shopping than I had intended and by the time I got out of there I had three bags and a pack of nappies hanging off the handles. It was raining even more and Jesse and I dashed down to the funeral directors and bustled into the quiet, dimly lit offices with a little less decorum than I had intended. We were met by a gentleman in a suit whose surprised look spoke of a man more used to dealing with the recently deceased and their reservedly English relations than the life and noise we presented. He glided out of a nearby office as if on roller skates.
"Hi there!" Said I, rain dripping off my nose "I've come to pick up my dad. I had a call last week to say he was all ready."
"Oh, I see" said Mr Funeral Director his calm voice belying the look on his face. "What is your late father's name, please?"
I gave it and he glided off to locate dad. A few minutes later he returned carrying a gift bag and a release form. I was glad for his sake the need for producing Father Christmas in all his glittering splendour had been avoided. Having signed the forms there was nothing else needed so I picked dad up, exclaiming without thinking, "Good grief! He's a lot heavier than I expected!" Mr. F.D. blinked. We looked at each other for a few seconds. I moved towards the pushchair which Jesse was still sitting in (thank heavens - had he moved the weight of the shopping would have sent the whole thing flying over backwards perhaps leading to the gentleman needing to lie down for a while).
The funeral director said in a rather alarmed voice, "Have you somewhere else to put your father?"
"No, don't worry he'll be just fine here!" And I hooked the gift bag over the handles of the pushchair, dad dangling next to the Pampers pull-ups.
"Oh!" He exclaimed "Here, uh, let me get the door for you." I thanked him and hurried off out into the rain, to get the bus home accompanied down the road by the silent laughter of Pops.
I wanted to share this with you as I just couldn't stop laughing. My dad loved the ridiculous and absurd. Even amidst the grief, he's still here making us laugh.
I went over on the bus to collect dad, with Jesse in his pushchair. It had occurred to me that I would need something to bring him home in, something with a flat bottom.... All I could think of was a gift bag. I rummaged through our stash in the under stairs cupboard but the only one I could find that was the right sort of size was a sparkly Santa bag. I looked at it briefly before deciding that it would be fine.
It wasn't the nicest of days; rainy and cold and we were both bundled up. Before heading to the Funeral Director, whose office is by the bus stop, I went to do some shopping in tesco. Perhaps more shopping than I had intended and by the time I got out of there I had three bags and a pack of nappies hanging off the handles. It was raining even more and Jesse and I dashed down to the funeral directors and bustled into the quiet, dimly lit offices with a little less decorum than I had intended. We were met by a gentleman in a suit whose surprised look spoke of a man more used to dealing with the recently deceased and their reservedly English relations than the life and noise we presented. He glided out of a nearby office as if on roller skates.
"Hi there!" Said I, rain dripping off my nose "I've come to pick up my dad. I had a call last week to say he was all ready."
"Oh, I see" said Mr Funeral Director his calm voice belying the look on his face. "What is your late father's name, please?"
I gave it and he glided off to locate dad. A few minutes later he returned carrying a gift bag and a release form. I was glad for his sake the need for producing Father Christmas in all his glittering splendour had been avoided. Having signed the forms there was nothing else needed so I picked dad up, exclaiming without thinking, "Good grief! He's a lot heavier than I expected!" Mr. F.D. blinked. We looked at each other for a few seconds. I moved towards the pushchair which Jesse was still sitting in (thank heavens - had he moved the weight of the shopping would have sent the whole thing flying over backwards perhaps leading to the gentleman needing to lie down for a while).
The funeral director said in a rather alarmed voice, "Have you somewhere else to put your father?"
"No, don't worry he'll be just fine here!" And I hooked the gift bag over the handles of the pushchair, dad dangling next to the Pampers pull-ups.
"Oh!" He exclaimed "Here, uh, let me get the door for you." I thanked him and hurried off out into the rain, to get the bus home accompanied down the road by the silent laughter of Pops.
I wanted to share this with you as I just couldn't stop laughing. My dad loved the ridiculous and absurd. Even amidst the grief, he's still here making us laugh.
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