I was up early because my daughter needed a ride to her friend's house. From there they would start the first anniversary walk to remember the passing of that friend's mom--who died in at a prime age of 40s.
Back in the yard, now so empty and quiet compared with last night, I started power-washing the residual ashes and soot. Then I had a flashback of my last glimpse at my grandfather, as his body was wheeled into an incinerator at a local funeral home.
When my grandfather came into this world, I was not there to see it. But when he left this world, I was there to see it. And I did not like what I saw. For some reason at the time we had to leave during the incineration. After we drove out of the funeral home, from a distance, I saw a wisp of smoke arising leisurely to the air. A few hours later, when I saw "him" again, "he' only existed in scattered ashes on a concrete floor. A staff member swept the ashes, with a broom, into a dusty pan, then transferred them into an urn. She had no emotion on her face. To her she was just doing her daily job. She probably had handled the remains of many individuals--all strangers to her--in the past. It never ceases to amaze how life starts from a void, flourishes, gradually declines and inevitably decays into oblivion. From its inception, life follows a preordained course, irreversible, unalterable and relentlessly immune to human pathos.
As the last drop of water rushed into the grass on my yard, carrying with it some remaining soot and dust, I turned off the wash gun and moved to something else. Just like yesterday, it was a shinny and warm day.
And the sun also rises.
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| Fire pit at the party |
