When my dad died, the crematorium gave us his remains in a plastic bag.
“Like a sack of flour,” I commented, but it wasn’t the time.
He didn’t say where he wanted his ashes spread. Probably didn’t care. We picked for him, a creek on his grandmother’s property where he used to fish. There was a ceremony where we said our goodbyes to Flour Sack Dad, tested the wind so he didn’t blow back on us, and dumped him in the water.
I didn’t watch what happened, whether he clumped together into a dough ball and sank to the bottom or dissipated and peacefully became one with the creek. I was more concerned whether we needed to give the bag another shake. It wasn’t completely empty; there were bits of ash clinging to the plastic, begging not to be forgotten but living forever in a non-biodegradable home.
I felt wrong for finding humor in the tragic moments. What was wrong with me?
Afterwards, a cousin in the clergy read a passage meant to give us hope. “For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first.”
And there was me, laughing at the image of Dough Dad rising. This is my body, take and eat.
Bio:
Matthew Pritt is the author of The Supes, published by Future House Publishing. His work has also appeared or is forthcoming in Potato Soup Journal, Sunlight Press, and The Bear Creek Gazette. You can find him on Twitter @MatthewTPritt.