Ashes
We decided to have you cremated. Your mom originally was thinking of finding a burial site for you, but I wanted to have you near us always. A grave is something you have to go to. Something you make a plan to do. You carve out that time and then go visit. While I can see this being a useful practice for some, I also realize that as the years go on and our lives get busy, it would get harder and harder to make sure time got made. With having your remains in ash form, I can visit your earthly self whenever I want. They can be split, mixed into tattoo ink, made into glass artwork, put into a small reservoir and stored in your favorite toy car. Your earthy self can be with me wherever I go. That way I’m always visiting you. To me, that sounds way better.
We cremated you on July 13th, 2021. You may notice that’s a full 14 days after you passed. Those two weeks were filled with sadness and indecision about when and how to deal with that part. We had very gentle and quality guidance from the funeral home, but the ability to finally schedule it was creating a block for me. I’d assume this falls into the “denial” category of the grief process in that, having you cremated meant accepting you weren’t coming back.
It wasn’t a requirement that we be there for the actual event, but I felt I needed to. Your mom wasn’t crazy about the idea, but she knew that I’d probably need someone and I don’t think deep down, she really wanted to miss it either. Your mom thought we should send you off and then drive up to Lake Tahoe and spend a few nights so we didn’t just come home and stew on it and fall further into depression. In retrospect, I have to commend her on that being a very good idea.
We arrived at the crematorium at about 1 pm on that day. They led us into a comfortable little room with couches and a water dispenser. There was a window that had drapes pulled across it that I assumed gave a view into the area that you’d be cremated. An attendant walked us into this little room and let us sit. I’d brought some of your toy cars and your sleep sheep in a backpack. I pulled them all out and set them on a table next to me. A woman entered the room and introduced herself (I have no idea what her name was) and said the room where you’d be cremated would be hot. 120 degrees I think she said, but that we could just sit where we were or we could go in. I said we wanted to go in. At this point the weather at home is 105 on the regular so 120 didn’t seem like that big of a deal.
We entered the room where your little body would be pushed into the fire and she was right. It was quite hot. Appropriate because of what’s going on in there I guess. There was a child sized, squat cardboard box that you were in. In sharpie at the end of the box was written “Benjamin O. Hartman” in large black letters. Your hometown, Chico and your birthdate, 9/9/14. I’m not sure why they needed the birthdate on the box. Maybe to identify you with all of the other information? It’s weird the things that go through your head while you’re standing watching your 6 year olds body wait to be reduced to ashes. Upon seeing this box and reading your name on it, I began to truly fall apart. The sobs and tears spilled out of me as the woman opened the cremation oven and rolled your little cardboard box in. This was why I hadn’t been able to make this decision quickly. Because the finality of this part was a huge load to bear, and I knew it. She closed the door to the oven, and watched the temperature gauge for some number that she found satisfactory and then nodded. I believe your mom moved first beside me and I knew it was time to walk. I turned also and began to head back into the viewing room. What people didn’t see is the small hesitation with each step. The ground felt soft under my feet as my vision swam in tears. I willed myself forward trying to not fall. I felt dizzy and faint. I knew if I collapsed, your mom couldn’t handle it, it was all too much as it was. I made it back inside the room to the chair that sat beside the table that still held your toys and your sleep sheep. I looked at them. The sheep looked back at me, judging. That sheep loved you. It was by your side every night. And now it’s best friend was gone. And had someone else been in charge that day, maybe he wouldn’t have lost you.
Your mom and I cried for awhile, and she eventually said “we should go.” I collected your judging sheep and your little cars and we thanked the attendant and left.
As I walked to the car, I looked back at the smokestack to see a faint amount of smoke rising, signaling your body being converted from that little boy full of life and energy to an urn full of ashes.