The Chronology of Water - Lidia Yuknavitch [27]
I took my box to Heceta Head. The coast at Heceta Head in December is epic. Me, my first husband, my sister, and weirdly, my parents. Near strangers.
Pretending to be a family, we stumble-walked down over the rocks to the water’s edge. The sound of ocean waves is large enough to stop your thinking. My mother closed her eyes and said a prayer in a southern drawl. Phillip sang I See the Moon - the lullaby my mother sang to me as a child - which made me feel a little like I might faint. My sister read “Ample Make This Bed” by Emily Dickinson, nearly killing us all. Then my father, the architect, pulled something out of his pocket. A folded up piece of paper. On it, he’d written a poem. Sort of. It rhymed. When he read it, his voice shook. The only time in my life I heard that.
It rained cold. Windy. Like Oregon is.
After that, Phillip and I took the little pink box which I had been clutching in my hand hard enough to nearly crush it and walked over to where the river joins the ocean. That’s why I’d picked that spot. I could see river rocks leading into the sea and sand, and I smelled and tasted saltwater. I don’t know if I was crying - my face was wet with ocean and rain. The lighthouse stood guard. All the waters of a life met at that tiny nexus.
Then I handed him the fragile little box. He took it in his hand. I said, throw it as far as you can. So he - there isn’t another way to say this. He chucked it.
Yeah, so the thing is, that little riverway that leads to the sea? Right there at Heceta head? It has a mean cross-current. So while Phillip and I stood there watching the little box float nearly out of eyesight, we also stood and watched it … come the fuck back. Pretty much to our very feet. Knocking itself against his shoe.
I looked back over my shoulder to where the posse of sadness that was my idiotic family stood - they were far away, almost dots. I looked at Phillip. Then I said, try kicking it out. No, I don’t know why I said that.
So he, um, kicked it.
This time it didn’t go very far at all, it simply launched soggily into the air and plunked back down and circled back to us, just slower this time. Without being able to stop, I started laughing. And he started laughing. I mean hard. I said go get it, goddamn it. So he did.
By then the little box had begun to disintegrate. Cheap ass pink crappy cardboard. As I peeled the dumb paper away, I saw that the ashes were actually inside a little plastic bag. Almost like a pot baggie. I tried not to laugh but I couldn’t help it, and Phillip went what? And peeked over my shoulder. We had giggles we couldn’t stop.
I said goddamn it I have to stop laughing. It’s not funny. It’s pretty fucking far from funny. He agreed, but he couldn’t stop either. I had snot all over my face. I was laughing so hard my stomach - former world - hurt. Finally I knew what to do.
I opened the little faux caul full of ash carefully with my teeth. Like animals do. Then I walked out into the ocean for real. I had a vintage red wool coat on. And brushed leather cowboy boots. Phillip tried to follow me in but I said no. I wave walked until I was up to my abdomen. The water felt ice cold on my stitches. Numbed the hurt there. I dumped the nearly weightless contents of my daughter into my right hand. Some of the ash blew into the air, but most of it didn’t. It was wet. Like sand. And then I let my right hand lower into the water, and I let go. I closed my eyes.
My father told me later it was the bravest thing he has ever seen. I never knew how to take that.
When I walked out of the water back to my first husband, he held me close - we were already apart by then - but he did it anyway. Then I felt his shoulders shaking, and I thought he was crying, but nope, he was laughing again, so I said what? And he pointed to the side of my vintage