THE COLLECTION OF ASHES.A Poem by Terry CollettON COLLECTING MY SON'S ASHES.We drove to the funeral directors, Nat, Gabs and I, to pick up Ole's ashes. We walked from the car to the building across a forecourt in silence, it seeming surreal, yet all too real as we approached together. A woman met us at the door, a well fed, plump one. Can I help you? We've come for the ashes of my son, I said. His name? I told her. She showed us into a room and we sat in silence. The small room was built for solemnity: sad music was piped from speakers on the walls and the décor was dull, yet fit for the sad occasion. We waited, looking at each other, looking away. Part of me expected, unreal, yet somehow real, for Ole to walk in in his black coat and hungry bear gait and say: Fooled you all that time. But he didn’t of course, just the music and an air of heaviness and deep sadness. The woman returned with a small oak casket with Ole's name on the brass plaque on top. She handed it to Nat and gave me a form that had to be filled in before Ole's remains could be interred or the ashes scattered; another piece of officialdom in death, as if nothing else mattered. We said our thank yous and gazed at the woman. She had a look of sadness, a solemnity, but she had no tear I could see, but why should she, I thought, she didn’t know young Ole. © 2014 Terry Collett |
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Added on December 3, 2014 Last Updated on December 3, 2014 Tags: FUNERAL DIRECTORS, ASHES, SON, FATHER AuthorTerry CollettUnited KingdomAboutTerry Collett has been writing since 1971 and published on and off since 1972. He has written poems, plays, and short stories. He is married with eight children and eight grandchildren. on January 27t.. more..Writing
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