plonq | Goodbye

All of our hopes and ambitions, dreams and aspirations, fears and uncertainties, victories and defeats, joy, pain, experiences and memories that we forge in this life eventually fit into a box small enough to be clasped in the hand of the youngest son.

Once a man of great stature, now a tiny box clasped in the hand of his youngest child.

The ferryman approaches to take our father on his final journey. My sister, the eldest of the children, spoke to the captain about our desire to bury our father at sea. Not only was he sympathetic, but he promised to stop the ferry in the middle of the straight and sound the ship's horn as a salute to the fallen.

The family is all gathered; dad is in the box, and I am just out of the picture holding the camera. We haven't much experience (yet) at burying family members. The idea was to commit our father's remains to the sea, but none of us had the heart to do the deed. Eventually the two eldest children (left and right) agreed to both place their hands on the remains and throw in unison.

When we reached the appointed place, true to their promise the boatmen stopped the ship and lowered the chain so that we could approach the stern of the vessel. We stood by the back of the ship and hesitated, trying to find the appropriate words, but we found ourselves at a loss. Finally one of the crewmen approached and volunteered to say a few words for the departed. He offered up an awkward, incomplete but very sincere recital of the 23rd psalm. The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want... It seemed as appropriate a final eulogy as anything else, and when he was done the two eldest ceremonially tossed our father over back of the boat into his favourite fishing spot.

I don't know what we expected. The box was pretty heavy, but I think that most of us thought that some miracle of the moment would cause it to float. It barely made a splash as it broke the surface of the water and it sunk like a stone. The box and the bag in which his ashes are stored are designed to dissolve away very quickly, and I expect they did not even make it to the bottom of the bay.

This past summer I saw my living father for the very last time. I do not remember my last words to him, but I like to think that they were, "I love you, dad." On the other hand, I remember his final words to me very clearly. He clasped my hand as tightly as he could in his weakened state and said, "Thank you, David."

Moments after I took this picture he disappeared completely from sight beneath the waves en route to his final resting place.

He is gone from us now. Whether you believe he is in heaven with the angels, or just a swirling cloud of calcium and ash at the bottom of Brentwood Bay, at least he is in a place that is beyond suffering; a place free of cancer and pain.