Smokin’ Hot Hereafter

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

The overwhelming scent of lavender permeates the entry of the lavish funeral parlor. Deeply inhaling the strategic aromatherapy, my brother and I bolster ourselves for the bittersweet task ahead.

We’re picking up Dad’s cremains.

The refined Southern belle of the undertaker’s establishment, complete with requisite large coiffure and signature drawl, offers a silky “Can I help y’all?”

My brother tearfully explains why we are here. As he speaks, my gaze abruptly rivets to a small faux bumblebee – the only decoration on the immaculately sparse desk. I start to weep.

“B” was my mother’s moniker prior to her passing. Mom signed every correspondence with that single letter accompanied by a drawing of the petite winged creature. Not only has my favorite fragrance greeted us at the door, but now, of all the items to grace one’s desk, the solitary, unmistakable reference to my mother is just too much. Feeling a wholistic heavenly connection, I cry harder as the receptionist gently places it in my hand, instructing me to please take it since it resonates so profoundly.

Feeling both touched and a bit embarrassed, we wait as she dutifully fetches Dad’s ashes.

She places a lovely gift bag on the office windowsill. The mood lifts a bit and we nervously chuckle. As if now in a tuxedo, Dad is sporting a tidy black box, sans bow tie, in an elegantly understated wrapper. The flannel-loving farm boy is now duded up for presentation.

Once papers are signed, my brother lovingly reaches into the bag, laying a hand atop Dad’s new digs. His tenderly reverent face suddenly morphs into complete horror as he hoarsely croaks, “Oh my gosh, FEEL THIS!”

As instructed, I feel the sides of the box, quickly withdrawing from excruciating discomfort. Without a verbal filter, I break the room’s serenity, loudly blurting, “For crying out loud! Did he just come out of the oven?!”

We can’t touch the box for more than a few seconds at a time. Like his favorite vegetable, Dad is now the spud too hot to handle.

Without skipping a beat, the well-mannered lady of the house smiles, pleasantly crooning, “No Ma’am, but they don’t tell me exactly when they cremate.”

“Well I’m guessin’ it was wasn’t any more than fifteen minutes ago,” I reply in my most polite “callin’-bull-hockey-on-that” tone, quickly following with an anxious query as to the heat specifications of the inner plastic bag.

Spinning an emotional one-eighty, my brother and I immediately burst into hysterical fits of laughter at this macabre irony.

Dad was ALWAYS cold. Blaming his blood thinners for years, even in summer he would sport at least three layers, which included his trusty flannel shirt and fleece jacket. The tiers were thicker in winter but ever present. The fact that this man was now smoking hot was violently humorous, and a little creepy.

Regaining a snippet of composure, we shook our heads and discussed our options. My brother and I agreed taking Dad back to the house in this state would certifiably freak out our families. We decided to sit a spell, to let Dad cool off, as well as wrap our heads around this undeniably funny twist, and life without him.

What we expected to be only fifteen minutes spanned an hour as we explored our gamut of emotions, recounting stories unique to this special sage. The kind hostess sat quietly with us, taking it all in, laughing and reflecting with us.

Realizing how much time had passed, we checked Dad’s disposition again.

Still a raging furnace.

Clearly Dad wasn’t in a hurry, finally enjoying some well-deserved warmth after his eighty-six years of chill.

With sibling clairvoyance, my brother and I exchange a knowing smile and nod. Our next decision is no doubt partially guided by a fatherly nudge. So with the still-too-warm bounty in hand, we exit that overly embellished yet otherwise silent shrine to the deceased and head to a more authentic venue in keeping with our family’s slightly skewed sense of fun.

We took Dad for a Margarita.

Dad’s favorite eatery and happy place was a little Mexican cantina just down the road. My brother and I entered the casual establishment feeling extremely satisfied with ourselves at this pseudo-command decision.

Proudly placing Dad in his dressy regalia mid-table, our server looked quizzically at the object but said nothing. We ordered our drinks and continued to reminisce. The tears had left for now, a contented relaxation having swapped places with sadness.

Our generously-sized cocktails arrived and we raised a glass to the gentle soul who taught us so much. I eventually placed him alongside me, continuing to feel his radiant warmth as we sipped and talked.

Since Dad was truly on leisure time now, it took at least another hour for his demeanor to get back to a more publicly acceptable range. We toasted our father and his one last punchline delivered with such impeccable timing.

Dad had been notoriously full of stories incapable of being made up, his twisted web of friends and relatives the hooligans full of shenanigans. While disconcerting, this hot flash of his was yet another example of him not following the rules, to see how much fun he could have even with his physical departure from this life. He would certainly garner applause at the pearly gates for this one.

To this day we are convinced this incident was his final blessing to us. We felt reassured that he was indeed with us just a wee bit longer, that he loved us fiercely, and that his heart and soul were on fire for the afterlife.

Dad had a glimpse of the “Great Beyond” thirty years prior during a cardiac arrest, and often spoke wistfully of Heaven’s profound beauty and peace. His ship had now come in, that last cocktail together our bon voyage sendoff for this new journey.

With empty glasses before us, and Dad’s ashes now much kinder to the touch, the three of us were ready to join the rest of the crew back home. We strapped Dad securely in the back seat. After that stunt, there was no trusting Dad to share navigation, much less drive.

The short ride home was quiet as my brother and I were lost in thought as to what had just happened.

Naysayers may point out this experience was all simply the logic of an ill-timed inferno. Perhaps. But that intense, continuous heat provided a lengthy opportunity, albeit comedic, for closure and reflection on Dad’s legacy: savor the memories and let your heart be light, even when death comes a knockin’.

It’s certainly a day my brother and I will never forget.

We took Dad home and placed him at the head of my brother’s table, where his “Missing Man” formation awaited it’s last accoutrement. His empty chair was surrounded by flowers and shouldered with his signature buffalo plaid fleece jacket. Various personal articles, and now, the simple black vessel, completed the vignette. Tears were shed, prayers recited and hugs were exchanged.

And then we laughed, with Dad, as we always had, recounting the heart-wrenching yet capricious dichotomy that so often defines life.

We raised yet another glass to Dad, celebrating his treatise on the necessity of levity, along with a new reality: Dad was now finally WARM.