Small Kindnesses

Blue woven basket full of stones

When my mom died, we asked people to bring rocks (she liked this Jewish tradition of remembrance) to put in a basket in her memory. Some folk painted rocks, some folks brought little ceramic knickknacks and gewgaws, others brought rocks from their gardens or farms, or maybe just from out in the parking lot.

I don’t really like boneyards and columbariums; these places are soulless and strangely anonymous. Burial grounds can be places of power, but most of the graveyards and memorial grounds I’ve been to are more like poorly maintained gardens. I understand that for some folks, it’s comforting to go to a graveside to mourn, or to pray, or to grieve, or to commune. For folks whose families have lived all in one place for many years, this makes a kind of sense. I scattered my grandparents’ ashes in the Bay of Fundy; my great uncles’ at the museum he built. My paternal grandparents’ ashes are buried in the cemetery of the town they lived in. I’ve been to it once; the day we interred them.

I visited my great grandparents’ graves in Manitoba once (and left small stones for them), and I don’t even know where my other set of great grandparents are planted. Probably in the same cemetery as my grandparents. Nobody’s left who remembers them.

A blue woven basket full of small stonesI actually don’t know where my mum’s ashes are; I suspect Dad has them out at the farm somewhere. I may find them some day, I may not. Maybe this sounds harsh, but they’re just ashes (oddly appropriate for my mum, who smoked a pack a day for over 40 years, and yes, that’s what killed her). There’s nothing left of my mum in them. There’s nothing left of my mum anywhere, except in the hearts and memories of the people who brought these stones to her funeral.

The stones are the kindnesses and hard-packed grief her friends and community brought for her, and I don’t really know what to do with them. Part of me wants to bury them in front of the house she lived in, treasures for someone else to find some day. Part of me wants to take them home with me and build a fountain with these stones at the bottom. The remnants of her family are scattered through the prairies, and Dad is living with dementia in a retirement facility, so I don’t know a) if I’ll ever find mum’s ashes, or b) if a memorial headstone would ever be visited. The saddest thing I can think of are forgotten or abandoned memorials. But I also think it’s important to honour these acts of remembrance.

cenobyte
cenobyte is a writer, editor, blogger, and super genius from Saskatchewan, Canada.

5 Comments

  1. I know I had great-great-grandparents. I don’t know where their remains are. Some day that will be the same for me. The effort of keeping all of everyone’s memories alive is so huge – and produces so little in return – that I doubt it’s worth it, except for the odd soul with the genealogy gene.

    My mother was always the family historian – she knew everyone and everything and we got little stories all the time. And then she got dementia, and I got sick, and I don’t know if any of my sisters remembers most of it.

    Sad, in a way, but of all the human endeavors requiring effort right now, as I’m battling the present, and hoping to hold on until surgery helps with some of it (I hope), it seems the least important.

    I’m glad all those people preceded me, or I wouldn’t be here. There is an UNBROKEN line all the way back to the first humans. And it’s mostly inaccessible to all of us. Some days I don’t have the energy to brush my teeth – puts everything in perspective, and then you lose your sources, so I’ll just have to have a warm fondness for each of the women who birthed another generation that survived.

    I have both stories and children. The latter have listened to the former. I don’t know what they’ve retained, or will pass on – and there is little written down anywhere. Life happens, and you get overwhelmed.

  2. They’re such pretty colors, the blue ones rare, and the red much rarer. They attract the eye. They loved to walk up and down the beach.

    My parents gave each of their five daughters a small glass jewel-like jar (a special instant coffee container, so we remember that as well) full of them, all of them smooth as eggs.

    Glad you have some, too.

i make squee noises when you tell me stuff.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: