Four years after my mother died, we still haven’t scattered her ashes

There’s no rush about ashes—they don’t rot or stink. And so, like many people, I have an urn of ashes in my house. My mother died three years ago, and her ashes are in my closet. They’re inside a thick plastic bag, cinched with a zip tie, wrapped in an unbleached linen table runner, and set in a fat glass vase. The certificate of cremation is smooshed at the bottom, kelly green ink on cream-colored paper inside a shiny envelope, with her full name printed on the front in a typewriter font. Two crosses of folded palm leaves from a long-ago Palm Sunday service are tucked in the folds of the linen.

This is my attempt at a solemn burial, for now.

My father, my brother, and I have been meaning to scatter my mother’s ashes at her favorite beach in western Michigan, but we can’t seem to get around to it. Two years ago, we were all on deck to vacation there for a whole week—but my brother, in the midst of packing up two kids and all their beach stuff, forgot to pack the ashes, which were in his basement that year. Since then, between busy schedules, bad weather, and a two-to-four-hour drive from our various homes, we haven’t been able to arrange to all be there at the same time.