Stardust in My Eyes
Lit Up — April’s Prompt: Transition
The small white box nestled inside the blue velvet drawstring bag is lighter than its contents — last year’s metamorphosis turned you from the corporeal into something more.
A warm, welcoming breeze stirs my hair, breathes over my skin like the feathery light touch of your fingers. It places the salty taste of the sea on my tongue, the grit of sand between my teeth. The roaring crash of a playful gulf wave sends cool water trickling around my toes.
“Last time I was here with her, I thought we would both be trapped forever,” I say to my husband. “I insisted she come down and try to swim, because she loved it so much. I didn’t realize that bad knees don’t mix with shifting sands.”
“But you made it,” he says, rubbing a hand on the small of my back. “I’m sure she appreciated the thought.”
I smile, but I’m already lost in other memories, of the years we came here when I was young. Remember when I was five, and I had that giant, itchy walking cast on my leg? You wrapped it in garbage bags and secured it with masking tape. It didn’t keep the sand out the way we’d hoped, especially when I insisted on logrolling down the dunes with my cousins. I carried the beach home with me that summer, where no amount of pipe cleaners shoved down inside the plaster could erase the rancid smell of old seaweed.
We came almost every summer of my childhood, to our hidden gem that’s no longer secret. It’s been discovered by the rest of the world, built up with stores, restaurants, tourist traps. Before that it was ours, just a place with a little cottage on stilts a quick walk from blinding white sands and green waters.
“She was the smartest one,” I say, pulling open the bag. “My grandparents had all four of their kids tested. Her IQ was the highest.” I pause, allowing a small chuckle. “My uncle — the doctor — hated that.”
It’s true, you were the most intellectually gifted. Had you not had the misfortune of growing up female in the 1950s, or perhaps if you’d been luckier with birth order and managed to snag that sweet youngest child spot, you would have been unstoppable. Instead, a sensitive second child, you bore the brunt of domineering parenting and tutelage that informed you of the expectations for your life: a college degree in home economics and a husband, with an emphasis on the second one. It’s not your fault that it didn’t work out well. How could it have?
The box is open now, and I remove the small plastic bag inside. “I wonder what bits are in here,” I say. “An elbow, maybe? Some teeth? I hope that they mixed it all up so that the part we’re sprinkling has a little bit of everything.”
“I’m sure they did,” my husband says, but we both know he’s not sure.
Not that it really matters whether the big box on my mantle has all of your heart or if some of it’s in here. The alchemy of cremation has turned blood, bones and sinew into ash, has equalized your earthly trappings. It’s no longer time for me to fret over your bad knees, or the pounds of excess flesh encumbering your existence. That was always the gorilla in the room, wasn’t it? You know, I never judged; my heart just ached for the pain I imagined it caused you. It was something I wanted to fix so that you would be happy. After you were gone, I realized it wasn’t the cause of any unhappiness, only the manifestation.
The sun is shining now, having chased away the gray clouds hovering since our arrival. I want to slide my sunglasses off the top of my head and onto my nose, but I don’t want to miss anything, don’t want to watch through a filter. The bag has a twist-tie, like you’re a loaf of bread, and as I twist I think about how you would have found that funny. Like in the hospital after the stroke, when your fist was curled in a knot and I joked that I was going to plant a little flag in it. That was the only time you laughed after it happened, and that was how I knew you were still in there, even though we followed your wishes and withdrew care. You were still in there.
The bag is open now, and I’m tipping it, spilling the grainy pieces of you into the eternal ocean. You’ll be a part of it forever now, whether the fish and the people like it or not. I let a few of the grains slip through my outstretched fingers, touching you one last time as I say goodbye. But I’m not really touching you, am I? You’re already back to stardust.
