When I woke up this morning, an unshakable certainty settled over me—today was the day. The day to finally take my mum’s ashes from the dark drawer where she had rested for too long, enclosed in a plain cardboard box, waiting. It wasn’t hesitation that had kept her there, not entirely, but rather a lingering reluctance to fully let go. As long as she remained in that drawer, some part of her still felt tangible, still tethered to the world. Letting go would make it final, an irreversible act.
Part of this delay was entangled in the unfinished business of her estate, the bureaucratic remnants of a life once lived. The legal processes had dragged on, not just because these things take time, but because, for the better part of a year, I had been drowning in drink, unable to face reality. Back then, oblivion had been my refuge, and avoidance my coping mechanism. The only saving grace was that I had a co-executor—thankfully, a solicitor—who, though excruciatingly slow, had kept things moving forward. While I spiralled, they chipped away at the practicalities, ensuring that, at some point, everything would be resolved, whether I was ready or not.
But today, the air felt different, as if the universe itself had given me a gentle nudge. It was time.
I had struggled to decide on the right place for her ashes. The idea of leaving her somewhere unfamiliar or impersonal didn’t sit right with me. Then it became obvious. Since starting my journey into sobriety, I had developed a quiet ritual: every lunchtime, I would sit and meditate in the garden of the church across the road from my workplace. A sanctuary hidden in plain sight, its tranquility offered a stark contrast to the bustling town beyond its walls. I had come to cherish this place—not just for its peace, but for its role in my recovery. It was a space where I could be still, where I could breathe, where I could just be. And, most poignantly, it was a place I passed through every Wednesday night on my way to my Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. In so many ways, this small patch of earth had played a part in saving my life. What better place for my mum to rest?
Yet, there was one small problem: I hadn’t exactly sought permission. I knew that if I had asked, the answer would almost certainly have been no. Rules are rules, and churches—perhaps more than most places—tend to have them in abundance. So, this would have to be a covert operation.
In the early hours, just as the world stood in that delicate pause between night and day, I made my way to the garden. The sky was in transition, deep navy yielding to the first blush of dawn. A faint orange glow lined the horizon while the moon and stars still held their places, like scattered diamonds across a velvet expanse. The air was perfectly still, as if the universe itself were holding its breath, waiting alongside me.
I found the spot, a quiet corner just near where I always sit, and began the act I had put off for so long. As I tipped the ashes from their container, I was struck by how much there was—more than I had expected. They didn’t vanish into the earth as seamlessly as I had imagined, instead resting lightly on the soil, a whisper of what once was. I hesitated, feeling a pang of guilt, of uncertainty. Had I done this right? Would she have approved?
I let out a breath and whispered, “Hope you like it here, Mum. Like I do.”
Then I sat. Just sat. Not in silence, but in quietude, the kind filled with life—the rustling of leaves, the first tentative notes of birdsong as the world slowly stirred awake. And in that moment, I realized that this was enough. She was here, in this place that had become so meaningful to me. And as the sun finally breached the horizon, I felt something settle within me—a gentle acceptance, a quiet release.
Mum was free. And, in some way, so was I.
Hope you like it here, Mum
The drawer, dark, held a weight,
Not of stone, but dust, a mother's gate.
Certainty awoke, a dawn's clear call,
The day to scatter, to release it all.
Hesitation lingered, a shadow's hold,
Tangible presence, a story in a box.
To let go, a final, sharp release,
From earthly bonds, a silent peace.
The estate, a tangle, a life's last thread,
Bureaucracy's slow dance, words unsaid.
Drink's dark refuge, oblivion's deep embrace,
A solicitor's steady hand, a saving grace.
The universe nudged, a gentle, silent plea,
A time for endings, a moment to be free.
Where to scatter, a question softly sighed,
A place of solace, where truths reside.
The church's garden, a sanctuary's heart,
Meditation's stillness, a brand new start.
Sobriety's path, a Wednesday's gentle stride,
A life reclaimed, where peace could abide.
Rules and barriers, a silent, unseen wall,
A covert journey, before day's soft thrall.
Navy to orange, dawn's delicate hue,
Moon's scattered diamonds, a silent, waiting view.
The ashes fell, a whisper on the ground,
More than expected, a life profound.
Guilt's soft pang, a question left unsaid,
Approval sought, where memories are bred.
"Hope you like it here, Mum," a whispered prayer,
In quietude's embrace, where life's soft breezes bear.
Rustling leaves, birdsong's gentle rise,
Acceptance's dawn, reflected in my eyes.
She was free, where stillness found its grace,
And in that freeing, I found my own space.
A gentle release, a quiet, knowing sigh,
Beneath the vastness of the morning sky.
