A Suitable Urn

In the beginning, I thought your mother was going to auctions to look for bargains. Bargains she might resell in her flea market booth, that being her hobby of late.  Then, after a series of mysterious phone calls that caused her to dash out of the house with no explanation, I became suspicious of her moral character.  Bugger all, I thought, after all these years.  But, as it turns out, I was wrong on both counts.

Another time she said she was going to a funeral parlor.  I thought a friend had passed away and was mildly curious why I had not been invited.  She wasn’t gone very long and never revealed who if anyone had died, there were some brochures, but that was all.

As it turns out, your mother has been searching for an urn.  Not just any urn.  A suitable urn.

She even brought one home once.  It was made of glass, swirling iridescent pale blue and silver glass, with a fitted lid.  Very ethereal looking.  About eighteen inches tall as I recall.  She stood it on the floor in the Family Room and would look at it several times a day.  Then one day it was gone.

Your mother has never described her notion of the perfect urn.  She only says she will know it when she sees it.  I suspect though that she does have some idea of what it should look like and how it should be constructed.  I have faith in her on this matter; she has always had a noble sense of practicality and style.  The notions of form, fit, and function just come naturally to her.

Practicality and function outweigh style, your mother told me, because following the reading of our Will, a pilot will be engaged to transport us to the site your mother and I will have chosen.  There our ashes will be scattered to the wind, but not before being stirred one last time; that seems only right.

For now though she is still searching.