Promises Kept

We fulfilled the last obligation to our oldest son the other day. He died back in February, and we kept his ashes against the time when we could carry out his last wish.

Many years ago, we lived in one of the low-population, high-area, geometric states. We moved from there to Texas, but he always considered "there" to be home. His entire life, when anyone would ask where he lived, he'd say "Well, I live in Texas, but home is…"

As he grew older and his accruing medical problems made it more and more likely that we were going to outlive him, we began discussing the end game. This, incidentally, is not a discussion one wants to have with one's children. It was necessary, needed, and almost exactly as bad as you think it was.

It turned out he'd been giving it some thought. He said he wanted to be cremated, and his ashes scattered in a very specific place. He told us why, and it made such perfect sense that we immediately agreed and promised to make it exactly as he asked.

We needed to wait after his death for awhile, for snows to melt, roads to clear, family to become available, and funds and days from work to accumulate. Much of the family, from barely walking 1-year olds to tottering relics in their 90s came from literally all over the country to this non-place out in the middle of God's Country where a town of 5,000 counted as a major population center. We all met under a bridge on a certain river so remote that the only location we were able to give on the invitation was GPS coordinates.

The setting was perfect; warm, no wind, crystal blue skies, whispering pines, fluttering quaking aspens — the river flowed strong and cold and clear, and even by the unbelievably picturesque standards of this area, it was a spectacular day.

After a time of memories, and prayers, and a bit of the finest whiskey and cigars that money could buy in a small hat-tip to the raucous wakes whispering from the history of our family's shared Irish blood, his mother and I brought him out thigh-deep into the smoothly flowing torrent.

It was cold, but pleasantly so. And while we stood there, I told the gathered tribe why we were there, why this place. I told them the story he told me.

Many years ago, he said, when he was only 8 or 9 years old, he'd been with his grandparents as they were on the road home from one adventure or another. Camping, most likely, or snowmobiling or…who knows. He was in the back seat of the car, watching the mountains and trees go by, and they crossed a bridge. He noticed that the sign on the bridge said the river had the same name as the river that ran through his home town. Grandpa explained to him that it WAS the same river.

"In fact," he said, "if you're ever lost, you can find this river and it will take you home."

He never forgot the spot in one of the most beautiful places on earth, or the lesson — and he told me he wanted his ashes there so he could start his journey home. And we promised. And that's why we were all there.

"With this," I said at the end of the story, "his mother and I keep our promise and discharge our last duty to him in this life, and we let him go to begin his next chapter."

I opened the container and his mother and I bent down close to the water, pouring slowly and carefully in a short arc in front of us, letting the current take him. The ashes drifted in a lengthening cloud, curling like smoke downstream, then caught the main current, and he was away.

"Good journey, son," I said, and it was echoed by the tribe.

Then as he disappeared downstream and the river took him up and he became part of it, we all hugged and shook hands. Cried a little. Had a bit more whiskey. And then a picnic, children playing in the river, skipping rocks, family laughing — none of us wanted to leave. We were there all afternoon, bound in blood and family and joy before we began reluctantly trailing away to our flights and schools, and lives. His mother and I left that spot and are now on two weeks vacation, relieved of our responsibilities for him for the first time in decades.

It was perfect. He'd have loved it.