Memorials. Resting places. Bodies. Ashes.
What do we do? Where do we do it? How often do we visit?
The “what to do” question was never a question for us; Coop left a handwritten note on top of his Bible in his bedroom, letting us know there should be enough money in his account to cover cremation. That was a clear directive, one that was reinforced by a second note on his phone. We didn’t have his phone back from the police for a couple weeks, but when we did have access, his wishes were repeated: “Burn me and throw me in the creek.” Subtle. In his last months, medicated with risperidone and lacking both emotions and tact, his phrasing was jarring but his wish was clear. Cremation.
Okay. Cremation. But then what? I could not–and still can’t–bear to toss his remains in the creek. Some we scattered on a hill at the farm, a hill Coop and I both thought had surely been home to Native Americans in the past and would be a perfect site for a cabin in the future, a hill overlooking the house and trees and, yes, the creek.
Mostly, Coop is resting in the original container from the crematory, but now tucked inside a handmade wooden box. Will there be a marker with his name and dates? Maybe, eventually. I haven’t been able to do that yet, even though it’s been over four years. I think I do want a stone, some proof for the future that he was here, that he lived and loved and was loved, but making the decision hasn’t passed the vomit matrix.
Honestly, I don’t think Coop would care too much about a marker, but he did appreciate the peace of sacred spaces. He liked old country cemeteries; sometimes, he visited them on his back-road adventures. On August 24, 2020, he took his last breath in one.
Now, at least once a year, I visit that country cemetery and that cedar tree. I spread a blanket or towel on the ground and sit facing the trunk, my hands often resting on the tortured bark, and talk to my son. At first, I went more often. I needed to go, to be there in that spot. Last year, I went one time, on his birthday, but I know I can go whenever I need to spend time in that space. Then and now, I’m more at peace after my visit than before. I’ve scattered no ashes there; there is no stone. Pennington Point Cemetery isn’t his “final resting place” in the sense most mean, but in some ways, it is. That’s where his spirit fled, where his torture ended, where his blood and his soul stained the earth. It’s a place where I feel his presence, but not the only place.
I feel him when I touch the tiny urn on my necklace or wander among trees. I feel him when I go for a drive with no destination in mind or when I ride my 4-wheeler around the farm. I feel him when I call my rudest cat “shit head,” Cooper’s name for the little jerk. Are these familiar haunts and words his resting place?
And when I finally made my way to Colorado, to the mountains he’d so loved, I felt him. Coop rode with me that week, across Missouri and Kansas. Literally–in a jar nestled in a cushioned case. He was with me when I first saw the mountains and when I fell in love with the meadows and streams, the pines and the people and the quirkiness of Nederland. As I wandered the mountain roads, I left a little bit of Cooper in most of the rushing waters I followed. Are the mountains his resting place?
I don’t think so. I think his resting place is in my heart and the hearts of everyone who loved him. I carry him with me–literally in my necklace and figuratively in so many ways–everywhere I go. When I emulate him in word or deed, I scatter his memory and legacy.
I’ve known people who visited their cemetery daily and others who never returned, people who bury ashes or wear them, who build shrines or slip into dark silence. I don’t think there’s one right way to honor and remember our people. Just like everything else in grief, we have to figure out what works for us. Our family tried to do right by Coop, and to follow his wishes the best we could.
I even tossed a pinch of him in the creek.
Woods Writes 