What Do I Owe a Dead Man?

Deciding how to dispose of the father I barely knew

Photo by Author

“I sent you a package this morning.”

My mom loved to send gifts, but she hadn’t sent one in a while. She felt obligated to include half of my father’s cremains in the next one she sent, and she was not eager to open the bag. Who could blame her?

I never wanted them. She felt as though they belonged with me. I think the only part of him that belonged with me were the parts of myself that mimicked her. She is the only person he ever loved. Any love he had for me was simply by proxy. Out of denial, or perhaps guilt, she insisted I have at least half of them.

“What’s in it?” I asked after a long pause.

“I sent you a blanket, some necklaces, a dress, your cottage cheese dad, a — ”

“I’m sorry, what about dad?” I was certain I had heard her wrong. If I hadn’t, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the truth. Had they messed up his cremation? Was that a reference to texture? Oh god.

“Well,” she began. “I finally worked up the courage to separate your father’s ashes. I had initially painted a Patron bottle, but it wasn’t dry yet, and the irony of him being stuck inside a bottle of liquor was too much for me. So, I placed his ashes in a cottage cheese container. Don’t worry…