when I’ll see my friends with their dads and I’ll be jealous. But none of their dads are like mine was, and I’d rather have fourteen years as his daughter than a hundred years as someone else’s.”
My eyes scan all the sad faces standing in front of me and I decide I’ve said all that I needed to say. But I’m not sure how to end this, so I just stand there like a moron and start to cry. Once the tears start falling, I can’t stop them.
Mom holds out her arms, so I walk toward her and let her hug me. She whispers in my ear, her voice loud and fierce, “You’ll always be his daughter, and he’ll always be your dad.”
The minister says some other stupid religious stuff that’s supposed to be comforting but is really just annoying. Then he hands my mom the canister that’s full of what they claim are my dad’s ashes. But for all we know, it’s a scam and they just scoop a bunch of dust into a fancy bucket and put a lid on it.
Mom reaches for my hand and I let her take it in case it makes her feel better. But it doesn’t help me. None of this is helping me—I just want to be alone.
She told me yesterday that after the service we were going to walk to the edge of the water, just the two of us, to spread a handful of the ashes. I agreed, but I hadn’t really been thinking about how strange it would feel.
Mom takes the lid off the canister that looks kind of like the one we keep flour in back home. She reaches inside to take a handful of ashes then offers the open container to me, but I jerk my hand away.
“I know this feels really weird,” she says.
I look at her, surprised. She was the one who wanted to do this in the first place.
“This wasn’t my idea,” Mom says. “But it’s what your dad wanted, and that’s all the reason I need.”
I take a deep breath and reach my hand into the pile of ashes. If it’s what my dad wanted, then I don’t want to let him down. The ashes feel kind of like sand, but softer and finer.
“Think we should say something?” Mom asks.
I shrug. I said all that I wanted to say up there.
Mom smiles at me and then looks down to her hands, holding what’s supposed to be my dad. “I love you, babe,” she says as she tosses her handful into the water.
I watch the ashes swirl, mixing with the water before disappearing as a wave pulls them back into the surf. Mom looks over at me, her eyes all shiny. She doesn’t bother to wipe away the tear that slides down her cheek.
My lips move to say the words “I love you, Daddy,” but no sound comes out. I open my fist and let the wind carry the pieces that may or may not be him out into the ocean.
This time, I’m the one who reaches for my mom’s hand as we start what feels like the world’s longest walk back up to the rest of the group.
“You’re all invited to join us back at Lexie and CeCe’s house for some light refreshments,” Aunt Jill says. “But first, if everyone would please take a balloon.”
A balloon? This isn’t a birthday party.
Abigail and Lou start walking around with two of the big black trash bags we use at The Broken Crown. They open the bags for each person to take an inflated red balloon, tied at the bottom with a long, white ribbon. This has Pinterest written all over it.
Even though it seems completely stupid, I take one when Abigail walks up to me.
“I have markers if you want them,” Aunt Jill explains, “to write a message or a prayer on the balloon, then we’ll all send them up together.”
Everyone takes a Sharpie and starts writing on the balloons as if it’s a totally normal thing to do, like Dad will actually be able to read them. I look back to my own blank balloon.
I pull the Sharpie cap off, feeling empty and out of words. I close the marker back up. This is stupid.
Mom and I make eye contact and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing. But then she bows her head and starts scribbling something. I sigh and take the cap back off. I put the tip of the marker