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NOTES:

WRITERS' CHALLENGE: SPRING 2008 - FIRST PLACE WINNER

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"Ashes"

by Debbie Roome - Christchurch, New Zealand

FIRST PLACE IN THE "WRITERS' CHALLENGE" CATEGORY, SPRING 2008

Violet sat on the kitchen table, two kilograms of ash cocooned in polished rimu. She’d been there for five weeks now. Alone. Secluded.  Guarded by his watchful eye. It was a temporary measure for soon Katy would insist on taking her. Insist on bearing her off to do the right thing.

He relived her last moments a thousand times a day. Slow motion reviews of walking, of apricot rimmed clouds and sunlight sinking into rippled water. She’d been so normal, pointing, laughing in delight as a golden Labrador burst from the pond, shaking brilliant diamonds into the cool spring evening. When he turned back, she was on the ground. “A massive stroke.” the doctor said. “The best way to go. She wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

It was small comfort to him. To his metal heart. A cast iron caricature of what once had pulsed with life. He found solace in bed, lying there for hours on end, tracing the hollow where she’d lain. The hollow formed by years of sameness and familiarity. He felt the same hollow within. An emptiness that could only be filled by Violet. He hadn’t changed the sheets since she died, craving the hint of fragrance that lingered. Occasionally, he would wake early and for the merest of moments, imagine she was still there.

The clock winked a red eye at him. 10:14. Reluctant, miserable, he dragged himself from syrupy tendrils of sleep and stumbled to the bathroom. He could imagine Violet’s voice. “You’re a mess, Michael Wilson. You get in that shower right now and clean yourself up.”  She would have been right of course. He spun the taps to full and stood in tingling darts of water, soaping and shampooing, dragging a razor over a week’s growth until the grease and grime swirled away. Clad only in a towel, he rummaged through his cupboard. His last clean shirt and no underwear. He would have to do some washing.

He marked another square off the kitchen calendar. Six weeks and two days since she’d left him. Six weeks and two days since the colour drained from his life. Vibrant splashes of marigold, teal, turquoise and plum now muted to tones of ash and charcoal and smoky grey. The flower arrangements were faded too. Armfuls of them dotted round the house. Decaying, brittle and faded. He should really throw them out but didn’t have the heart to. It would be another step away from Violet. Another stage of separation.

He’d realised quickly that when someone dies, you lose them bit by bit. In little pieces and chunks as favourite restaurants are revisited or special songs play on the radio. As each memory reminds of what you no longer share. They’d had a special song, him and Violet. One they used to sing as a duet as she played the piano.

Smile though your heart is aching;
Smile even though it's breaking.

When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by.
If you smile through your fear and sorrow,
Smile and maybe tomorrow,
You'll see the sun come shining through for you.

He sat at the kitchen table, a slice of toast in one hand, the other resting on the urn. Kate said it was time to let go but he couldn’t. Not yet. Letting go would mean finality. Violet suffocating under shingle and clay, Layered between slabs of frozen earth.

The phone rang just then, a discordant jangling that he ignored as he often did these days. When he did answer it would just be Kate or James. Concerned, tiptoeing on egg shells, frustrated, even angry. Treating him like he was the child and they were the parents.

“Have you eaten today, Dad?”

“Can I come and give you a hand after work?”

“Anything I can do in the garden, Dad?”

He just wanted to be left alone.

The answering machine picked up and Kate’s voice admonished him. “Dad, I know you’re there. I just wanted to tell you I’ll be coming round after five and bringing a visitor. Please make sure you’re at home.” He wondered briefly who it would be this time. She’d already brought her pastor, his doctor and a group of well meaning women whom he threw out after ten minutes.

He shuffled over to the sink and rinsed a mug, the inside muddied by strong coffee. He knew he should wash up, but the wobbling stack of plates was overwhelming. Rather do some laundry. The bin was by the washing machine where he’d left it a week before. A pale, plastic receptacle that swelled and bloated as he followed trails of socks and underwear, strewn randomly across the house. He was hopeless at this kind of thing. Violet had always done the laundry. He’d seen her sort it into lights and darks, woollen and delicates. His method was to empty the basket into the dark womb of the machine, throw in a dash of powder and switch it on.  He thought there was a powder drawer somewhere but his way worked just as well. He jabbed the on button and the pipes jerked to attention, turgid, gurgling and hissing as water mixed with soap and cascaded in streams across dirty washing.

He left it percolating as he followed his feet to the bedroom, to Violet’s wardrobe where her clothes hung in graceful folds of silk and florals, Her essence was encapsulated here, the sweet scent of soap and jasmine sprinkled with tones of lavender. At least once a day he would bury his face in an armful of clothing. Even take some of it out and pretend to dance with it. Today he closed his eyes as he waltzed around the house. As he sang their special song and wept.

Kate was punctual as ever and arrived just after five. He ignored the doorbell so she let herself in, searched and found him on the veranda slumped in his chair. “Dad, this is Maria. She’s a grief counsellor and she’s come to chat with you.” He shrugged his shoulders not interested. She stooped down and kissed him on the head. “I’ll pop past tomorrow.”

Maria pulled a chair up next to him. A tall willowy woman in her late fifties, she was bony and angular with a sensible haircut. “I know you think I’m intruding,” she said. “But I’ve been though this twice. I lost my husband to a heart attack a few years ago and my eldest daughter died from cystic fibrosis.”

He turned away. “I don’t need your help or anyone else’s.”

She chatted to his back for a few minutes, then rose and headed into the house. “It’s no problem if you’d rather not talk. I’ll do some cleaning for you.”

He reached the kitchen before she did. “Don’t touch the kitchen table, or the flowers. Or my bed, or the dressing table.”

She indicated to a chair in the kitchen. “Sit there while I wash up. You don’t have to talk but I’m going to.” And talk she did as she poured lemon dish wash into steaming water and frothed it up into tiny bubbles. As she slid glassware in, then mugs and cutlery. “It takes time to get over a death, especially when you’ve been close to the person for many years. It can feel like part of you has been ripped away.” She stacked plates in the draining rack and ran a fresh sink of water. “Now the process of saying goodbye is different for everyone. What you must remember is to do what’s right for you.” The washing up completed she started on the counter tops, spraying them with pine scented liquid and rubbing hard at  blobs of congealed gravy and fat.

He sat still, silent, embarrassed at the condition of his house; miserable and missing Violet. “Now where do you keep the mop?” After mopping the floor she asked for the vacuum cleaner. He followed her. Watched carefully to ensure she didn’t touch the flowers, didn’t disturb anything of Violet’s.

She left the house in good order and in spite of his resistance he found himself thinking of her words. “You’ll know what you have to do, Michael. Follow your heart.” She was right. One day he would have to throw out the dead flowers, move her books, wash the sheets, bundle up her clothing. For now though, there was only one urgent matter. He had to rescue Violet and it was no good trying to reason with Kate. The girl was stubborn as a stripped screw when she wanted to be.

He started the next morning, sitting at the kitchen table with a list, a handful of Ziploc bags and a spoon. The house was securely locked and he felt good. Felt in control for the first time in weeks

And so started a series of journeys, a series of farewells. He rode the Gondola to the top of Mount Cavendish, climbed down to the Bridle Path and stood amongst golden tussocks. The wind was gusty and whipped the ashes from him, pulled them into whirling currents and spread Violet across the landscape she had loved.

He took a gentle amble by the River Avon and amidst cherry-blossom trees and sunny daffodils, shook a bit of Violet into the river.

He went for coffee at their favourite restaurant and discreetly sprinkled her into pot plants at the door.

He drove to Arthur’s Pass and stopped by the magnificent braids of the Waimakariri River. Stood on soggy planks and scattered her across turbulent, turquoise froth.

He walked along the beach at Kaikoura, Allowed stormy seas to blur his vision, to sting his face as he tossed fistfuls of Violet into the ocean.

The urn grew lighter and lighter and eventually there was just enough left for the garden. He ran his fingers through the ash as he spread her among irises, camellia bushes, and rhododendrons. As he scattered her on green lawns and blew particles across pastel roses. When done, a sense of satisfaction washed across him. Violet was free, a part of all they had loved together.

Kate called that week and left a message on the answering machine. “Dad. James and I have arranged for the interment of Mom’s ashes.  We’ll be coming to collect them tomorrow.” He knew that tone of voice. Kate had lost patience and would indeed be over in the morning. He went to the kitchen table and lifted the urn. The lid was secure but it was noticeably lighter. Too light in fact. He pulled on a jacket and went outside.

The moon was buttery and round that night, cream against ink, spilling pale shafts of light into the wood shed. He selected some blue gum logs and one by one, split them and split them again. Then stacked them in a box, aromatic resin leaking across his fingers like myrrh. He paused for a moment breathing in the fresh, woody fragrance. Pondering on what he was about to do.

The interment took place a week later. He was there, and Katy and James and their spouses, and five grandchildren and the minister from Katy’s church. The Reverend was solemn as he read out the committal prayer. “For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed: we therefore commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

He couldn’t help himself. In spite of the grief that permeated. In spite of the sacredness of the moment. In spite of his family’s tears, he could only think of one thing. Violet was free, scattered round the country she had loved. Free to bask in the sunlight, free to dance with the rivers, free to mingle with the flowers. He thought about what she would say if she were here, about what Kate and James would say if they knew what he had done.

It started as a little tickle, a hint of amusement that bubbled up inside, swirling around, growing in strength until it burst out, a loud, full-bodied laugh that shook his entire body.

Copyright (c) 2008 by Debbie Roome - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!
 

COMMENTS FROM OUR COMMISSIONING EDITOR, Jo Holloway:
Loved this! Wonderful story-telling, beautifully descriptive and visual, heart-rending and heart-lifting. I had an immediate understanding of what he was thinking and feeling. Very realistic, and despite the sadness I ended with a feeling of joy, and a little of happy rebellion, of triumphing over the mundane!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

I was born and raised in Zimbabwe and later spent fifteen years in South Africa. In 2006 I moved to New Zealand with my husband and five children. Writing has been my passion since the age of six and I love to write stories that touch people's lives and turn them towards God. After fifteen years of owning a toy store, I am now working full time at my writing and have never been more fulfilled. My major writing achievements include the trophy for Runner up to the Writer of the Year, South Africa, 2004,  placing second out of 8000 in the FaithWriters.com Best of the Best contest for 2007 and receiving the trophy from the South African Writers' Circle for the best self-published book of 2007.

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