Black Rock Mountain- Mountain City GA.

For a little over a year my Fathers ashes sat closed in the small bag the funeral home gave us. Cremains they are called. Dad died on April 4, Easter Sunday 2010.

Friday evening near sunset, my family gathered on Black Rock Mountain in Georiga. It was on this mountain that my Fathers ashes were to be scattered. This was his last wish and we were prepared to see it carried out. The sky grew dark as sunset approached. The leaves on the trees twisted in the wind indicating rain was imminent. The view from this board walk was magnificent and one he would have loved. Perhaps he too had stood there. Most likely he had at some point. Before us lie a mountain vista layered in rolling valleys of various shades of blues and grays. We carefully opened the bag that held my Fathers ashes. His second wife's ashes were to be scattered with his. After 78 years of life, what remains is a small bag of dust. Almost resembling beach sand and shells but finer and lighter. I lightly touched the surface. My finger leaving an impression in the dust. He is not this dust. He is in my heart, but this is what is left of him on Earth.

First a toast. Shot glasses, tequila limes and salt came along for this final send off. My brother Ken and I took turns scattering the ashes and hearing them fall on the green foliage below. It sounded like rain. It was new. Spring gifts this mountain range with an array of deciduous trees, most of which had leaves. The recent tornado took a swipe at this old mountain, but didn't destroy this section of the park. Much like relationships, they weather change.
Our life here on Earth is where we leave our impressions,
our scars,
ourselves.
By the choices we make, the lives we touch and the love we give.

This last year has been a roller coaster of emotions. Some good days and some not so good days. The lives that have touched mine have left their fingerprints on my soul. For them I am forever grateful. They have lifted me through difficult times and held me from a distance as I healed. Healing, is an ongoing process, that I'm certain. When I went through this as a 15 year old with my Mothers death, I had just 15 years of reference. This time, 35 years later, with the last parent carries a completely different, longer perspective. More water under the proverbial bridge. More memories, more 'what if's'.
More.


Our lives are not what remains as dust. It's all the day to day small, seemingly insignificant things that make us who we are. We are not dust at the end. We are souls going their way leaving behind who we became.
We are who we make of ourselves with every breath. We are wind and light and memories and love.
We are the life of life and what we chose to make with that life is ours to chose.

Ashes to ashes - dust to dust.
Rest well Dad- you are home.

Love,
Your Pumpkin

Photos: Jon Hecker