My realtor told me that I shouldn’t have any personal
belongings visible while showing the house. She said it was too personal and
that it didn’t reflect well with buyers who needed, to envision themselves
here. I hesitated when packing my personal belongings up. In particular were the ashes of my son,
Quentin, “Q” which were sitting in a coffin like box on my teal credenza in my
living room. There was an American flag beside him which was offered to me
during his military ceremony.
I didn’t intend to place my son’s remains there on this teal
credenza in a shrine-like manner (I told myself it was not healthy to build a
shrine to my fallen son). Conflicted, I wrapped his ashes in a soft blanket,
gently placing them in a box, clean and not closed in the back of my closet. I
knew that I would never forget they were there.
Admittedly, it seemed banal on some level, as if I were
somehow disrespecting my son and my memories of him. Every night I would remove them. The next day
I would gently touch this box where his physical body lay in state. I touched
this box once in the morning when I arose and once in the evening before I slept.
I touched this box, gently. I touched the box in a tentative manner, willing my
son to know how much he is missed; how much he is loved. I do not know how my
son would feel about this. He was
practical, pragmatic as am I.
My son has not been buried yet as I have not taken the trip
to the Lexington Cemetery in Iowa to do so.
There is some solace and comfort in having him with me in the physical
sense. It frightens me to think that he (or his remains) may not be near me
when they are buried. How will I be able to touch this box with my son tucked
inside if I cannot do so every morning and every night?
