It was Ash Wednesday. I was 8 years old. In our local church that seemed as majestic then as any cathedral, I waited my turn to kneel before the white-robed priest. My heart beat loudly. I didn’t want these ashes on my forehead. I hated their smell. I remembered from last year wearing the grit all day. Being marked somehow. Ashes don’t wash off easily.

A cold thumb pressed hard on my thrid eye. “You are ashes and to ashes you will return.” 

This time I listened, really listened, to his words: “You are ashes…and to ashes you will return.” 

And I was frightened. “You are ashes…and to ashes you will return.” Scared the soul out of me. 

But then mind coaxed soul back by thinking, “You are just a child. This won’t happen for a very long time.” Thankfully, I could only imagine old age and death in others. Relief. 

A few months ago, when I took my husband’s ashes from the kind woman at the crematorium, I couldn’t believe how heavy they were. The urn I chose was light. Made of bamboo, an eager grower, like him. Teal/greenish blue mixed with earth tones to feel like Mother Earth. He loved living on her. Everyone who sees the urn comments on how beautiful it is. 

It sits atop my bedroom dresser where I can see it from any position while in bed. In the mornings I write letters to him in a special journal with good Italian paper. I read to him at twilight, books I know he would enjoy. The list is endless. His brilliance and curiosity did exist, once. Just before sleep I ask him fervently, urgently, for signs, dreams, anything—a message, some comfort, sensical understanding. I’m not picky.

Some nights are better than others. The best so far: He appeared strong, radiant, healthy. A sage old woman nearby witnessed his being there. No doubt about it. “But how can that be?” I asked in amazement. “His ashes are in the other room. Yet he is truly here, vital, alive, with me.” She smiled like she understood and one day I would, too. Not ready to reveal, she shrugged her shoulders, “I don’t know. It’s certainly a mystery. Even my philosopher father can’t figure it out.”

I woke up happy. 

This Ash Wednesday is Valentine’s Day. His message to me?

I’ll choose to believe that.

Copyright, GloriaDeGaetano, 2024. All rights reserved.