May 2022
Half of Kara’s remains were to be cast into the ground with freshly planted cherry trees on her brother’s land in Pennsylvania. The remainder into a family plot at a cemetery just down the road. Most fittingly in a mason jar that was her grandfather’s, painted black - though her family and I retained some ashes for ourselves as well. That amount of parsing may sound peculiar or unwieldy, but we were all on the same page with regard to how that matter should be handled. In fact, her family and I agreed on everything when it came to the settling of Kara’s affairs. Which was enormously helpful for all involved, as you could imagine.
Kara’s brother and I had the unenviable task of separating those remains the morning of the memorial. What was still a horrific, uncomfortable chore, was made lighthearted on a dime by his detailing of a particular incident from their youth. As we struggled to pour remains into separate receptacles while choking on the freshly-released ash smoke now billowing through the air, he regaled me with the story of the time when as adolescents, Kara man-punched him square in the face and then threw him down the stairs by the dick.
We switched seamlessly from tears of sadness to crying with laughter. Then, not wanting any of her to be disregarded, I began sobbing again as I licked my hands clean of ash. Two beats later I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe when he joined me by taking a Tony Montana-style pinky’s-worth of Kara to his gums. (As bitter as we thought she’d be.) To the largest degree possible we composed ourselves and along with a small group of family, went into the yard and released Kara back to that most peaceful and purposeful place amongst the tree roots and mycelium.
We then moved on to the public memorial service around the corner from her brother’s home. Which while certainly hallmarked by heat and humidity, was genuinely touching and properly honorific. Then finally, a Celebration of Life at the brewpub in her hometown. Which was wonderful. It all was, as much as events like those can be, anyway. It made for a long day though, and being all sorts of tapped out I left the celebration earlier than I would have liked. Whiskey and wanton sorrow combine to make a surprisingly propellant fuel, but when the tires go bare you should probably pull over.
I hugged a lot of people that day, including many whom I had never met before. Many on shuffle. Some on repeat. By the time I got back to the hotel room and finally took off my clothes, there were rather noticeable patches of foundation mixed with tears caked across both shoulders of my black shirt. And I couldn’t have given less of a shit. I licked the love of my life’s ashes off of my hands that morning. Lady makeup on my shirt was of no concern.
I thought that after laying her to rest the worst of the anguish and grief would mercifully be over. For some unknown reason, I had convinced myself that once Kara’s remains were in the ground, memorials had, friends & family members kissed, and a celebration of life convened, I would feel a sense of relief. That the hardest chapter of dealing with the loss of her would finally be over. That I would exhaustedly fall across a symbolic finish line and have at least one corner of my mind cleared and a chamber within my heart put at ease. Unfortunately, that was very much an unrealistic assumption.