Sorry For My What?

During the past month, I have heard the phrase "Sorry for your loss" more times than I care to count. It's a wonderful phrase, don't get me wrong. Sometimes, I just find it kind of unusual. My mother isn't lost. I know exactly where she is. 

She's sitting on the dining room table.

Well, that's where she was at first. She was in her little plastic box in a paper bag. (Coach should really make tote bags for such occasions.) Dad started going through Mom's belongings and began to lay various Goodwill donations on the dining room table. In order to avoid an awkward call from the good people at Goodwill, I encouraged Dad to put her someplace else. She sat in her bedroom for a while before finally settling in her sitting room.

Occasionally, I will walk into her sitting room and grab a People magazine. I will casually say, "Hi" to Mom, as if the box will talk back. Apparently, talking to boxes runs in the family. My mother would tell me often about talking to her father-in-law, my grandfather, as they drove up to Marblehead Lighthouse to scatter his ashes.

This summer, I will make the same journey to Marblehead Lighthouse to scatter my mother's ashes. And we will have a little chat, just the two of us.

Mom at Marblehead Lighthouse after scattering my grandmother's ashes. The bench is a memorial to my grandparents. We're going to look into putting her name on it as well. This means she is technically sitting on her own gravestone. Which is kinda creepy.