We did not have a funeral for my father.
When he passed on July 5th last year, a cremation package had already been set in place a couple years before by his mother, also gone by that time and reduced to ashes of her own. We didn’t discuss it much, my mother and brother and me. I wasn’t sure who would come to a funeral, who my father’s friends were. We talked about the expense of it. It was decided we would have a small reception at home for family and a few old friends my mother was still in touch with. My father’s body, picked up the night he died by a couple of young men in suits employed by the Cremation Society of Virginia, was returned to us in a clear plastic bag tucked in a black plastic box, tucked in a larger wooden box, like some sort of elaborately wrapped gift. He sat on a shelf in my mother’s living room like that for just over a year, while the three of us grieved and thought about what to do with him.
In the end, it was decided to release his ashes at Colonial Beach, a rocky shore of the Potomac River less than two hours northeast of Richmond. Colonial Beach is the one of the few places the four of us ever went as a family. We weren’t big on family trips or vacations when I was growing up; my parents, bohemian and unconventional as they were, never really did any of the typical family fun things we saw on television or heard about our friends doing. We didn’t go to amusement parks or playgrounds or camping. My mother, who doesn’t drive, walked us to the post office where we picked out stamps for our collections. We drew and built things and cut out advertisements for porcelain dolls from the Sunday Parade that we glued onto construction paper and kept in a binder. My father took us bird-watching and to the sites of war memorials, to museums and the Baltimore aquarium. We never did any of these things as a family of four—although we all lived in the same house, there were the things my brother and I did with our mother, and the things we did with our father. Colonial Beach was the exception.
We stood atop a small cliff overlooking the Potomac one recent Sunday, taking turns throwing fistfuls of my father’s ashes into the wind. But first my brother, Robert, took a tiny glass vial out of his pocket and carefully packed it with a bit to keep with him. Robert and I climbed down the rocky bank to the water, where we turned the river white with my father. We left a little in the bottom corner of the bag to pack into tiny vials for my mother and me, and to sprinkle in the pet cemetery in her backyard. Back at the top of the overlook, we stood watching the bone-white of my father’s ashes wash down shore and said how he, a recovering addict who turned his life around in his fifties, taught us it’s never too late.
I had two cameras with me that day: my Minolta X-700 loaded with a roll of Kodak that I had already filled with images of flowers for a double-exposure portrait project, and the Pentax K1000 my father had given me, loaded with Amber 400D, a film pretreated to produce color shifts. I finished what was left of both rolls by the time Robert and I climbed closer to the water, but luckily he had his iPhone on him and captured some great photos that I will cherish forever. Collected below is a mix of all three.
Thanks for reading, you’re beautiful.