Buried Ashes

By Audrey Yeung

I held her tightly in my arms as I ran across the street, the red light flashing at me. I glanced at my watch in between strides. Two minutes left. I can make it. Another street blocked my path, the green light blinking, daring me to cross. I would have if it weren’t for the dozens of cars waiting impatiently. It seemed like forever before I made it across the street and into the station. One minute left. I can make it. Crowds of people blocked my path as I struggled to make it to the train. Thirty seconds left. I could see the train whizzing into the station. I pushed through a few well-dressed men with briefcases. Twenty seconds left. The train doors opened. I shoved aside (and promptly apologised to) half a dozen college students. Ten seconds left. “The train will be departing shortly. Please mind the platform gap.” I can make it. I ran as fast as I could without dropping her, counting down the seconds. The doors started closing. I ran.

I didn’t make it. 

The next train was in forty-five minutes, and there was nothing left to do but wait. I sat on a bench overlooking the train tracks. I put her down next to me gently.

Her funeral was eight days ago. I don’t remember the eulogy I gave, but it must have been good because everyone said it was “beautiful” and that she “would’ve loved it”. I do remember arguing with her father. Multiple times. The first argument was about who should transport her ashes from the crematory.

“It should be me, of course!” her father declared.

“Why should it be you? Why can’t it be me?” I asked. 

He looked at me with disgust. “You?” he spat. “I’m her father!”

“So? I’m her husband!”

“She is my daughter. We are bound by blood.”

“She is my wife. We are bound by love, which is something you probably never felt for her.”

I won that argument.

The second argument was about where her ashes would be buried.

“In a cemetery!” her father hissed.

“She explicitly wished for her ashes to be buried on her favourite beach,” I whispered as calmly as I could, which was no easy task.

“I will not have my daughter’s ashes scattered on some beach,” 

“Are you choosing to ignore her wishes?” I shot back.

“Do you know how expensive the cemetery plot was?” his face was turning red. “Do you want to pay for it then?”

“Your daughter told me, as her dying wish, for her ashes to be buried on her favourite beach, and I’ll be damned if she isn’t buried on that stupid beach.” I could practically see the steam coming out of her father’s ears while his eye twitched dangerously.

He won that argument.

The third argument was about whether or not we should stop arguing.

“Can we just stop? We’re here to mourn my wife. Your daughter,” I said. I was already exhausted from waking up at 2 a.m. that morning.

“I would have liked to stop, but you didn’t let me. Now please stop disrupting this funeral service,” her father replied curtly.

“Excuse me?” I retaliated, a little too loudly. “You’re the one ‘disrupting this funeral service’, not me,”

A woman nearby turned to glare, effectively shushing us.

“See? You were being too loud,” her father said, gesturing to the woman. I ignored him.

It was technically a stalemate, but in my opinion, I won that argument.

Eight days later, today, I went to the crematory and picked her up in a nice urn. I called the ashes “her” because I knew it annoyed her father. I also knew she would have liked not being referred to as “it”. I was supposed to take the train to the cemetery so that her remains could be buried, but I missed the train. I was mad at myself for missing it, and if she were here now, she would be laughing at me for being mad because it was such a trivial thing to be mad about. Then she’d get me laughing too and soon, people would start staring at the two of us laughing like we’d gone insane. I smiled at this thought, and then I realised I wasn’t really smiling, I was crying. The platform was much less crowded but the remaining people started looking at me. I let my tears and grief blur my vision, I let them fall onto the ground, and I let the people stare. Another train pulled into the station and almost everyone else left.

So I waited. I watched the clock's hands move so slowly that it felt like nothing was happening. I watched other trains arrive, all of them not going to where I needed to be. I watched my life replay in my head in flashes, up until the moment when she left the world. Without her, I could feel myself being torn apart. As if my soul was ripped out of my chest at the exact moment she died. She was everything to me, and now I feel like nothing. I didn’t even shed a tear at the funeral, and here I am at the train station, crying my eyes out because it’s finally sunk in. She’s really gone. All that was left of her were the ashes beside me, and soon, they would be about three feet below the ground. I would be forced to move on with my life, except that life didn’t feel worth living if she wasn’t in it.

There was half an hour left. I picked up the urn and exited the station. Maybe it was a good thing that I missed the train because I was thinking much more clearly. It was also a good thing that her favourite beach was so close to the station. Though the sun was out and the sky was blue, the beach was empty. I squinted through the brightness as I set the urn down. I started digging through the hot sand until I had a good two to three-foot hole. Carefully, I opened the urn and poured some of her ashes into the hole before closing the urn again. I resealed the hole, ensuring no one would be able to accidentally uncover the ashes. I would have buried all of her, but I had to make sure there was still something in the urn when I eventually got to the cemetery. Knowing that her wish was honoured made me feel relieved and glad that at least a part of her got to rest in her favourite place. I stayed at the beach for a while longer, and then I headed back. I was right on time as the train skidded into the station.

I made it.