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Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Write for the BIOGRAPHICAL Genre (12/04/14)
“I’m sorry we … burned … you,” the hushed apology catches in my throat and I swallow the grief. “I still think about it. The one thing you told Mom you were afraid of: fire.” My finger traces the cold ivy of the metal heart as my palm memorizes the whole weight of it. Remnants of my grandmother’s body – my guardian, my angel – now reduced to talc-like ash, spread between pewter hearts for those of us who can’t let go and one encasement containing the leftover pile of her that we buried in her father’s plot, right on top of him. These are the choices you make through the mildewed fog of grief when families don’t talk about needs and desires. This fog is the kind that climbs up your nose into your brain rendering you useless to the task of decision-making.
“We tried, we really did. Too young for old age you left no instructions to honor you in death other than what you told Mom, ‘I’m afraid of fire.’ Your only instruction, to be buried, not cremated.” Tears run hot down my face and splash onto the heart I covet in my hand, I swear I hear a hiss with each drop.
I lower the weighty heart back to its boxed blue velvet resting place as if it were made of glass but leave the lid open. My eyes scan the heart taking time to study any detail, maybe searching for some whisper of forgiveness. This is ridiculous. She’s dead, she doesn’t care now. The silence stretches out – heavy at first, like tar – so I continue, maybe as much for my sake as hers. “We felt you’d rather be cremated so your ashes could be buried with your dad than to keep your body whole but alone in some random far off plot away from anything and everything you loved. But I can’t shake the guilt, your only wish was carried away with the wind like a dandelion gone to seed. Should good intentions matter? Is the sin so blatant we can hope for nothing better than to spend our remaining years wandering in a silent forest, our guilty souls never to reconcile with yours?”
The compulsion to make my beloved grandmother understand washes over my being so I resort to pleading with the empty room, “we knew how you felt about family though, family was always first, family was everything. We couldn’t imagine your body disintegrating, reaching out for something familiar only to find you’re trapped within the casketed walls knowing there’s nothing looking out for you on the other side, so alone. Maybe it’s stupid, maybe it doesn’t matter. Please don’t be mad.” Biting my lip I close the lid securing the golden lock.
Her crushed velvet case in one hand I take my mug of now-tepid chocolate into the living room and sit on the couch to admire the Christmas lights. The pine aroma swirls like vapor around me and reminds me of Christmases past. I open the case, again turning it toward the twinkling tree and nestle the mug into both hands, enjoying the illusion of warmth it provides.
“It was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” I tell her, smiling. “We came home after waving goodbye to you from the hospital roof, just a week before Christmas. James ran ahead to unlock the door for the kids and I to drag our baggage through and his eyes painted the most compassionate smile on his face as he waited for us to gather. When he opened the door we were greeted by a beautiful tree, decorated as if you were there but with James as your hands and feet. He knew how important it was to our family to feel your presence somewhere during this favorite season of yours, the one you always made so magical for us. We had forgotten about Christmas until then.”
I slide the empty mug to the edge of the coffee table and pull the aged blanket my grandmother crocheted over myself as I tuck my knees to my chest. “It felt like you, in those twinkling lights. Like you were telling us your light isn’t diminished and shines even brighter now. That was the best.” I let my head fall back into the couch and clutch the blanket like a prized childhood toy I was unwilling to share. I can’t believe it’s been eight years.
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This article has been read 587 times
Member Comments
Member
Date
C D Swanson 
12/12/14
This was so moving I can barely find the appropriate words for such a beautiful story.

Your love and the inner conflict at the decision to cremate yr grandmother was palpable, and I felt your heart and torment along with your grief. ALthough we know our loved ones are in heaven in beautiful spiritual bodies, during grief we sometimes can't get beyond the "here and now."

I loved this hauntingly beautiful story that was almost poetic in beauty...excellent job. I'm sure your grandmother understood and was very proud of your decision.

Thank you for sharing this with us, I won't soon forget this entry.

God Bless~
Shann Hall-LochmannVanBennekom 
12/13/14
I so understand this. You did a nice job of building your MC. I could feel the agony and grief. I'm not sure if you nailed the genre. I see where you were going, but it may have been more about the grandmother. I felt like I didn't learn a lot about her life other than she feared fire and loved Christmas. With that said, sometimes we need to write what God places on our heart. It's been 21 years since Mom died and I miss her so much. You took me back to the Christmases without her and the love for the grandmother shines through. If you haven't checked out Jan's Writing Basics on the message boards, I'd urge you to participate. She has a wealth of knowledge for all levels of writers. Nice job.
Noel Mitaxa 
12/14/14
At first this looked like a slab of print, but it developed its descriptive momentum in such a way that it stopped looking crowded.
Good profiling of your emotions in such a deep experience of loss.