"Open it," she demands. Her eyes are narrowed, jaw jutting determinedly. She swings the fabric bag taken from the NICU by its ribbon handle, up and over, up and over. It smacks down on the mattress repeatedly, its jaunty pattern of blue bears on a yellow background flashing through the sunlight coming through the curtains.
Even looking at that print once again, those repetitive bears, makes my eyes sting.
The imperious demand, "OPEN it mum-me."
"Jessica," I say. "Jessica my girl, my love. Inside that bag is Baby Georgie's little blanket that my Ouma knitted. And also inside that bag are Baby Georgie's ashes. We are NOT going to open it today. It is a special bag. "
She bounces around the bed, bag swinging.
"Bounce, bounce. Jess-ca bounce, bounce."
"Jessica, watch where you are going. Jessica . . . Jessica. . . we do NOT hit Baby Reuben with Baby Georgie's ashes. Even by accident. Give them back to mummy. Now."
I feel unseemly laughter bubbling up my throat. I could never have foreseen that I was going to have to reprimand one of my children for hitting another with the burnt remains of a third. It seems too ridiculous, it seems too awful. Halfway between a giggle and a scream I sit down heavily on the bed.
"Mum-mee not happy? Bay-bee Oo-ben, Bay-bee Gorg-gie. Bounce, bounce."
I kiss her head. Her solid little skull with its small, crinkled brain fizzing about underneath.
So very far away from ash.
But closer than I would like to think.
It's all closer than I would like to think.
I disentangle the handles from her fingers. I wrap the ribbons back around the bag and plump it up again, as though that would help matters. A small comfort to my child of dust.
I return the bag to its place in a box at the back of the wardrobe wishing I believed in prayers and offerings, feeling as though I should burn something or slit the throat of a small animal. To fend off misfortune.
If only that were possible.
If only right...
ReplyDeleteI am much like you in the way that we perform a sort of tightrope act parenting both the living and the dead. Honor for both, and memories that are unmistakeably longer on one side versus the other.
Thinking of you mamma....
These kind of conversations are at once so sad,but also a little funny, and then quite weird, and I don't think many people would understand them. x
ReplyDeleteWeird, funny and sad. Just like Jeanette said. I remember the early days when we would take R's ashes everywhere with us. People would say things like, "She's always with you" not knowing that she was, in fact, in my coat pocket.
ReplyDeleteBest to you and to those adorable little ones of yours.
Oh, my. Oh, Catherine, this had me laughing and crying at the same time, and I read it with my heart in my mouth.
ReplyDeleteDot's been going through a "let's take everything out of all the drawers" phase, and the other day she found her brother's blanket in my dresser. I stopped her before she unwrapped the urn inside it, thankfully. I'm good at saying, "that's a green shirt," but I don't have an explanation for urn yet. Not yet.
Love to you and your littles.
That really struck me just because it does seem so natural and plausible in this odd existence we find ourselves in.
ReplyDeleteThought one that really struck me is that having lost a child it really drives home how quickly one can go from perfect and happy to dead and there is no way we can make them not just with our love or anything. Our children always have the possibility of bad things happening (ourselves too, but somehow that doesn't strike me as hard).
Thought two is I really need to figure out what to do with Aurelia's ashes... Trajan really wanted me to open the urn a couple months ago, but got him to accept just talkiing about them.
I felt a sort of giggle-scream happen when I read this too. It's not something many people would understand sadly (or maybe not sadly ..)
ReplyDeleteBut, I understand completely the need for a ritual to ward off those things which cannot be warded off.
"So very far away from ash.
ReplyDeleteBut closer than I would like to think.
It's all closer than I would like to think.
I disentangle the handles from her fingers. I wrap the ribbons back around the bag and plump it up again, as though that would help matters. A small comfort to my child of dust.
I return the bag to its place in a box at the back of the wardrobe wishing I believed in prayers and offerings, feeling as though I should burn something or slit the throat of a small animal. To fend off misfortune.
If only that were possible."
Yes. When you enter a world you did not want to enter (Is this the real world? Or that other one, I used to think was real?) the ability to buy that Truly Bad Things Never Happen...vanishes.
Several people have written lately - about a wish to believe or to pray or to have "something" to give help and protection. But they find instead: frustration and longing. Is this because the "religious buffet" fails? Or because faith never seemed to do what it promises - or what people say it promises? I am throwing out questions as they stir in my head, not because I expect you to say more - although any words you want to share would surely be welcome.
I wish, wish, wish, wish that Georgina was fighting her sister for that bag. And that it was empty.
Your words matter,
Cathy in Missouri
I found myself chuckling while reading this - definitely something you never imagine yourself saying. Such a balancing act we find ourselves in. xx
ReplyDeleteI figure if we don't laugh, we'll cry.
ReplyDeleteLove to you and your child of dust.
xo
YES, if only that were possible. Beautiful, beautiful post.
ReplyDeleteApparently I'm dark enough to find it funny too. It's just one of the many things that you never thought you'd have to say as a parent.
ReplyDelete