Dad's Ashes

As I type this I am in my childhood home in Minnesota.  My dad's ashes are by the front door waiting for us to take them up north tomorrow to spread them by his deer stand, the farm where he grew up, and the cemetery where his parents are buried.   

So many emotions.  So many memories.  

Last night, when I arrived in Minnesota, my mother greeted my at the door stating that my father was here.  Yes.  I believe that.  His spirit is here in the house.  Her meaning was more literal.  She brought out a bag of ashes in a plastic bag and placed them on the picnic table outside where we were seated enjoying the warm August evening.  

"There's your father," my mother stated quasi-flatly as she placed his ashes down.  To her credit, I'm not sure how she thought she was supposed to feel in the moment.  Judging a widow is never a good practice.  We don't know what is going through her mind.  Grace prevails in situations like this. 

I wrapped my hands around the bag of ashes, closed my eyes, and wept.  His entire life, the ups and downs, the triumphs, and the defeats, all the arguments dad and I ever had, ultimately ended up as a bag of ashes on a picnic table. 

 I'm looking right now at his high school graduation picture, his Navy picture, his wedding picture.  Gone.  His life is just gone.  He is literally a pile of ash by the door. 

We all are awaiting the same fate.  Our egos just don't realize it yet.  We are all dust in the wind.