We scattered my mother's ashes yesterday, in the same place we scattered my father's ashes, almost four years earlier. It's hard to believe so much time has passed. And time it was, as my mum had been sitting in my closet for almost two years.
The reverend read from Corinthians, focusing on the love between my parents, followed by a short prayer and then he read the same poem that I'd read at my dad's service (not sure if that was a coincidence or he'd taken note of it as I remember him asking me for a copy on the day I read it). We closed with the traditional hymn for those connected with the sea, "Eternal Father, Strong to Save" (aka "For Those in Peril on the Sea") and a short silence for personal 'prayer'.
Ashes, that is all that remains. I like to think that scattering these in the same place we scattered my father's ashes, has reunited them.
It was a carbon copy of my dad's service, same reverend, same people (less two or three out of town) and the same loving feeling of celebrating a revered person now lost from our lives. It is always interesting to me how people saw my parents, with so much of the warmth seeming to come from my father while my mother is more usually described as humorous. Which is, in reflection, pretty much how it was for their children.
The rose I cast forth was crossed by the rose my sister then cast forth - not sure about the significance, other than read on.....
Well, that was the first closure. On this trip, Rhona has ceased to be anything to me. She has once again dissolved into the most ridiculous intoxicated drama queen, has lashed out at me repeatedly and stepped way over any line I can ever tolerate. Some highlights of Saturday evening, where she turned up for dinner with her drunk hat on:
First there was the fact that she 'killed' my notebook by dropping it on the floor the night before - and made it my fault for mentioning it to her. Oh and also claimed she hadn't broken it.
Then there were histrionics about 'burying my mother tomorrow'. This from the woman who couldn't be bothered to go and spend Christmas with her mother even knowing it would be her last (and was only 5 hours away).
I was also to blame for not inviting our brother to the service the next day, even though she had agreed to take care of inviting people the week before. Not that he could come anyway, but I should have contacted him because she's not close to him. I'm not.
Apparently I had forced her to do things she wasn't good at, like making some of the arrangements for the service. Oh excuse me, I never realised I was so skilled at funeral arrangements.
Oh and let's not forget the "fucking vicar" she had to contact. Ummmm and agreed to when we discussed everything. (Please remember all this was being said/shouted in a restaurant and the F word was being used very liberally).
She hates the power I have over her. Well if there is any power, she has self-appointed it and plays into it. For example she hasn't bothered to open her own bank account where she can put her inheritance money so it's still in my account. Which means that every time she needs money, she has to ask me. And I transfer it to her with no question. She has given me that power (which I neither use nor abuse) and now resents me for having it.
There was much more, so much more, such as the favour she had done for me in keeping the business running/running it into the ground, whichever way you want to look at it. And that I hadn't ever bothered with the 'accounts' she sent me - hardly relevant as accounts when they failed to record any of the substantial amounts of cash I continued to inject into the business.
The pièce de résistance, however, was the fact that I am not looking after Lupo properly (in her book) because, apparently, I'm a "fucking fat lazy cow". Nice one don't you think? This is after I get up at 5:30am to walk him, make sure he has two long walks a day and also that he has a couple of evening walks and always one just before bed. But because I don't personally take him on every single walk (pretty hard to do when one is working, I have engaged the services of a dogwalker) I am a "fucking fat lazy cow".
At that point I got up, went and paid the bill and left with Steve and Lupo. We haven't spoken two words to each other since, not even at, or after, the service yesterday. She returns to Tenerife tomorrow, to fix up my apartment and remove herself and her asswipe boyfriend from it and a legacy of nine years of free rent. Finally, though she has some other business to take care of over there and I reminded her of that.
As the saying goes: Stick a fork in me, I'm done.
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