My partner died back in 2020 and I still haven’t collected his ashes from the funeral home. I’m not entirely sure why. Perhaps it’s because he died during the pandemic lockdowns, which made the basic administrative tasks required after someone dies even harder. Or perhaps it’s because he didn’t leave any instructions about where he wanted to be scattered, and the idea of storing an urn without a plan is too overwhelming. Or, perhaps, grief just made it impossible to complete that final step.
When someone dies, the paperwork seems endless. And even after you think you’re done, letters arrive in the name of the dead person and you are forced to pick up the phone once again and deal with it, while later breaking at the sight of their name on a bill they will never pay. It is utterly exhausting to be undertaking all of this when you are chafed with grief, and also attempting to organise a funeral, a memorial, a burial or a cremation.
Given that nearly two-thirds of Australians choose to be cremated, it would make sense if we had plans for what we wanted after we were gone. And many of us do. But others do not – leaving the decision to the living. And because those of us left behind are desperate to honour the person we love, we are tasked with scattering their ashes somewhere important, somewhere relevant, somewhere we know they’d approve of. And that can feel like an overwhelming responsibility at a time when getting out of bed is hard enough.
When my mum died, we scattered her ashes at a bend on the Williamstown beach in Melbourne. She’d grown up there, surviving a hard and often impoverished childhood by escaping to the lifesaving club, so returning her to the water made sense. And it was a place we all remembered her being, so we could sit with her memory whenever we visited.
Later, Dad admitted he’d also scattered some of her ashes in his front garden, near the spot where we’d buried my brother’s dog. At the time, I hated the idea of mum being separated, and I decided that when it was my turn, I’d leave strict instructions about where I wanted to be. But now ironically that I’m older, and closer to death myself, I’m not sure how I feel about any of these final steps.
My daughter is currently studying an arts subject called Death at university, and part of the assessment is creating a service for her own funeral, and another for someone she loves. Rather than being frightened by the content, she has relished the candidness of the conversations with other students and lecturers. She is now comfortable discussing the environmental costs of cremation and burials, the ritual of washing the body, and of using a shroud rather than a coffin. At 20, it may seem young to be having these sorts of conversations, but I’d argue that instead of making it mysterious and secretive, she can now talk openly about what she wants when she goes.
When I tell a friend I haven’t collected my partner’s ashes, the look on her face makes me question if I am neglectful leaving him to rest in a drawer somewhere instead of bringing him home. And so, I immediately email the funeral home to enquire about collection, apologising for having taken so long. The director is reassuring, explaining it isn’t uncommon for a funeral home to store uncollected ashes, although there is an endpoint because they can’t keep them for ever. She suggests perhaps I could come in the following week. We make a date. But when the day arrives, I cancel at the last minute. It still feels too early.
It is only when my dad’s ashes, buried in a box of family photographs, come to rest in my office that I decide it is time to collect my partner’s ashes too. My dad died in January last year, and we still haven’t worked out what to do with him either, but I like him being in my house. Sometimes I even have a chat when I am supposed to be working. Read him a sentence of two of something I’m struggling with. I decide that I like the idea of the two men that I loved being stored in such close proximity. It’s as if they are company for each other.
And so, I rebook the appointment. And this time I won’t cancel.
Nova Weetman is an award-winning author of books for children and young adults, including The Edge of Thirteen, winner of the Abia award 2022.
