My mom died five months before my vision loss. She always wanted her ashes to go to her beloved New Jersey beach. She and I were the best of friends, traveling to this coastal town many times together for over 30 years.
She died at home. I leave there that day behind the funeral director’s van, there are already 50 things I want to tell her. How will I live the rest of my life without being able to share it with the person who was there from the start? I go to work. I clean out her clothes. I bring boxes of photos and knickknacks home to go through when some time has passed; the wound is too raw to expose it to the painful air she no longer breaths. Months go by. Do I even begin to grieve? I wake up blind. I wait for my sight to return. Some does after a few weeks. I bide my time for more vision restoration. I want to be able to see properly when I do this for her. Mom’s ashes are in the bottom cabinet of my nana’s China hutch in my dining room. I remain legally blind. Ten years go by. It’s not intentional. It’s not as if I’m not emotionally ready. I honestly don’t think about it much. When I do, I know my mom wouldn’t be upset. My husband and I joke about it, she would find it comical too.
As the decade anniversary of her death approaches, I make plans to take her to her final resting place. It’s not legal where she’s going so I purchase a child’s beach bucket as to not call attention to what I’m about to do. I take her to the shore one more time.
My husband accompanies me to the boardwalk steps leading to our favorite location, then I begin the rest of the walk on my own. Using one of my trekking poles in my right hand – navigating sand is a challenge with limited vision – and mom in my left, I traverse the long, treacherous route towards the ocean. I never look up in an effort to see as much as I can of the uneven, shifting ground at my bare feet. I stop to rest. I turn and look at rhe boardwalk, I am able to make out an amusement park. I am exactly in the spot where mom and I always set up our towels and chairs. This is the place. This is her place.
I am wearing one earbud, Tim McGraw’s “Please Remember Me” is cued up. She loved Tim and this song. I always knew I would play it when this moment came, I made the decision long before she was even sick. I use my foot and the kid-sized shovel to create a deep hole, then remove the lid of the bucket. I begin to sob. I’m not crying over leaving her here, instead I am flooded by memories. How many times had we sat here, sweating, putting lotion on each other, laughing as we returned to our camp having lost the battle with the Atlantic Ocean, drying off, having cold drinks and a snack for lunch? She only drank Sunny D there, but she loved it. She would take some cubes from the hotel’s ice machine now in the cooler and place them in the small orange juice bottle for optimum refreshment on a humid August day. Goldfish crackers were her preferred summer nosh after a big breakfast at our favorite grille. How many times? Over a thousand, at least.
I know I must have looked a sight. It’s a beautiful spring day, many people are walking along the water, allowing the sound of the waves to wash winter off of them. I pull myself together and slowly, gently pour my mom’s remains into the grave I have dug. This is the last thing I will ever do for her.
Mother Earth, meet my mom. She brought me into this world. I now give her to you.
Ashes.
Dust.
Sand.
I love you, mom.
#sisterrain #alittlesightalotofheart #legallyblindwriter #timmcgraw #pleaserememberme #herfinallyrestingplace #iloveyoumom