They say that a man only grows up when his mother dies. Whether I grew up after the death of my mother, whether I will ever grow up, I cannot say. All I know is that, on her death, a huge burden seemed lifted from me:
Now, I was free - and the first decision that had to be made concerned the disposal of her ashes. It was fitting, I thought, that they should be scattered on the edge of the South Downs, in view of the window from her bedroom at the house of my childhood, the view she loved, . The only trouble was that, when I called to pick up her ashes, they weren't quite ready - still cooling down, probably. Could I come back later? Well I came back later, unexpected, one lunch hour: There was the weary undertaker, eating his sandwiches, his stockinged feet resting on a box - the box containing my mother's ashes. The living need their rest and the departed have found theirs - and the thing didn't bother me one jot. But, as I carried the urn away, this poem was born:
SCATTERING THE ASHES
It's strange:
The box I bear
Contains
An urn,
In which there lie,
The last remains
Of Dorothy,
Who countless years before,
Bore me:
Who felt the doubtful joy
Of labour pains,
And all the great.
Indignity
Of giving birth.
Who had no doubt
Great hopes for me,
Her son,
Who now,
Irreverently,
Thinks, 'flush them
Down the lavatory!'
Does it matter,
Where these ashes
Assume their final
Resting place?
She feels no pain,
No worse, no better,
No approbation,
No disgrace.
She cannot hear
The wicked thoughts
That turn around
Inside of me,
Or understand
That unrepentant
Side of me
That says, 'whatever else
I am, I'm me!
Just let me go
And let me be,
To find a benchmark
Of my own,
Just forget me,
Set me free….'
Yet, somehow, still
I feel the pain
Of that her act
Of giving birth,
The debt I owe,
Just for the fact
She gave me life:
And so I take them,
To a distant wood,
A place she'd go,
A place she loved,
And understood;
And there I let the wild wind
Take her for its own,
And on the journey back,
I bubbled,
Her son!
