Last week my aunt's mother died. Her name was Daisy and she was 96 and she was more than ready to go. She lived much of her life in Butte, Montana, and only recently moved to Bellevue, WA, when living on her own in Butte was too difficult.
Daisy's sister, Bee, lived down in Los Angeles, and was two years younger. Bee never married, and was worried about being bossed around by Daisy if she moved up to Florida.
In the days before she died she made my aunt and uncle promise to take care of her baby sister, which they have been doing for five years now.
The other night, Bee was being put into her bed by her aide when she exclaimed, "My sister didn't call." Now this was not unusual, since Daisy did not call regularly. But then Bee declared, "But that's okay, because she's sitting right there."
The aide said there was no one there, but Bee was insistent. "Don't tell me I don't see anyone. She's right there."
Bee died in her sleep a few hours later. We all think Daisy came to take her sister and order her around some more.
We gathered on Sunday for the unveiling of the tombstone of my uncle who died last year. April is a bad month for this family; I am not sure why. Uncle is buried next to my cousin who was killed when a train hit her car in 1968 when she was 19. I remember her very well. In my five-year-ikd eye, hers was a lap that was safe and warm. It was a place I was loved very much.
The cemetery is placed next to Republic airfield and small planes make a lot of noise as they come in for a landing. The rabbi said that as long as the human heart remembers, those who are not with us are always present. It is a very human thing, to want to be remembered.
Daisy and Bee were both cremated. In Bee's case, she didn't want a funeral or a service, and a company out there specializes in scattering your ashes automatically. Daisy's husband was cremated without residue.
It's hard for us to imagine that we are here and that there's nothing else, but I have a feeling that that's pretty much the way it is. I think the residue we get to leave is upon each other's consciousness. We also get to leave our marks in art. In our paintings and books and movies. The residue we leave behind is often our best parts, but sometimes it's the most truthful. What is the price of immortality? It's residue.
Well, I have instructed everyone that I want a BIG fuss. But my writing, hopefully, will be the residue.
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