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Illustration by Catherine Chan
I flew to Vienna for vacation as planned the morning I learned my mother had died. In the liminal space afforded by air travel, I mourned the mother-daughter relationship I would never have, not the woman whose life had ended.
My elder sister took care of everything. She wrote the obituary, cleared out my mother’s room at her assisted-living facility and organized the funeral.
On the day of the service, I flew to Toronto from Calgary and back again with my husband, Howard. The service was respectful, and I was among the family members who spoke. My remarks were brief. I did not say I loved my mother or that I would miss her, because I didn’t and I wouldn’t. Instead, I focused on her intelligence, determination and willful desire to stand apart.
My younger sister chose not to attend. I respect her for that. It seemed more honest than my do-the-right-thing approach.
After the funeral I was given a sealed solid steel urn with a portion of my mother’s ashes in it. As I didn’t know how to say no thank you without being rude, I accepted this unwelcome gift.
I was estranged from my mother for most of my adult life, and now I unwillingly held her physical remains. It was an intimacy I was unprepared for and did not want. My mother always said she intended to live long enough to be a burden to us, so this was just one more thing to carry.
Her great-uncle had been mayor of Toronto. She was proud of him, and the Taj Mahal-inspired mausoleum built in his honour. Her gravestone and some of her ashes would be placed there. I decided to scatter my share of her ashes in the Canadian Rockies: My mom had been an avid skier in her youth and was among the first women to graduate from the Banff School of Management. I thought my plan would please her.
I repeatedly tried and failed to open the urn. Howard was also unsuccessful. Eventually the urn was relegated to the basement and forgotten about until I had to take it with me when we moved to Salt Spring Island, B.C., from Banff, Alta.
After we were settled in our new home, I was walking our dog in the woods thinking about what I needed to accomplish before Dec. 31 when I remembered my mom’s ashes. If I wanted to start the new year without her, I needed assistance.
Salt Spring is populated with many creative people. One such individual helps us with various projects when he’s not making art. I was reluctant to ask for his assistance given the personal nature of my request. However, as time was of the essence, I overcame my hesitation and made the ask.
A sledgehammer was required. The task that I had been unable to complete for years took all of five minutes with the right equipment in the right hands. I disposed of the urn and kept the small Ziploc bag containing my mother’s ashes.
I didn’t want the ashes on Salt Spring, so I took them with me on my next trip to Vancouver and planned to scatter them there. I walked from my hotel to the ocean; my mom loved big bodies of water and releasing her into the Pacific felt right. When I got to the beach the sun was setting and the light was golden. I climbed up onto the seaweed-covered rocks and sat precariously by the water’s edge. I waited for a wave that was big enough to carry my mom out into the world. When one came, I opened the bag and watched my mother’s ashes dissolve into the water. I felt relief. With a single act I had set her free and unburdened myself.
I put the bag back into my knapsack, planning to recycle it on the mainland. Unfortunately, I forgot, and it travelled with me back to Salt Spring. The next week Howard was going to Victoria, so I gave him the bag and asked him to dispose of it there. He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, but after taking in my expression said no problem.
A few days later I noticed a Ziploc bag on the counter waiting to be rinsed and reused. I picked it up, and before I could put it under the tap Howard said, I should warn you, that’s the bag your mom’s ashes were in. I turned to look at him in disbelief before screaming something unprintable and throwing the bag outside.
Howard had misunderstood – he thought I wanted him to dispose of the few ashes that clung to the inside of the bag, not the bag itself. The situation was so ridiculous and perfect that my anger evaporated. My mom was a difficult woman. It made sense that everything about scattering her ashes would be challenging. It was also time for me to accept our relationship for what it was, and to see it as essential to who I am, for better or worse.
The bag was recycled on Salt Spring.
Alexandra Montgomery lives on Salt Spring Island, B.C.