A pot of dirt, perched on a pot of perch...

"For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
The saddest are these: 
'It might have been!'"
- John Greenleaf Whittier

"Closure"- or need for closure, is a popular psychology term used to describe an individual's desire for a definite cognitive closure as opposed to enduring ambiguity. It is a need usually provoked after experiencing an emotional conclusion to a traumatic life event, such as the breakdown of a close interpersonal relationship or the death of loved one.

Metal or wood? A seemingly simple quick, easy question to answer, something like what you'd hear in a grocery store- "Plastic or paper". It still rings in my mind. Of all the memories I have burned into my mind - that one escapes me. "Were your mothers ashes kept in a metal urn or a wooden box", asked the manager of the crematorium. -"Because if they were buried in a wooden box, the remains may not be recoverable".

It was an expensive, not to mention emotional journey to find the answer to that question. No amount of research could answer it - just blind luck of the draw. So took my chances. I got in my car and drove the 7,500 kms return, jumped thru all the hoops of paperwork, and red tape to have my mothers ashes exhumed from the family plot of three. Her ashes were buried with her mother and her father's ashes in a plot the size of a casket. We needed only to exhume as deep as three feet.

After all these years of angst towards my grandmother for hijacking my own mothers remains, and burying my mother years later at the eleventh hour just short of my eighteenth birthday in spite - there I stood, over their open grave, as irony would have it on my 46th birthday. My moment had finally come.

As I drove the many miles east to Montreal to accomplish this task my mind kept tempting me with thoughts of- what if's - I did actually recover her remains. What would I do then? The chances were 50/50 that I may actually recover the ashes, as I still had no idea if she was buried in a metal urn or a wooden box, the anticipation was incredibly difficult to control. I would day dream on the drive across northern Ontario of the scenic places that I'd like to stop on the way back, and ponder scattering some of her ashes here and there. Photographing the journey home with her remains in beautiful places.

Just the thought of being able to hold her remains in my hands after all these years of complete and utter abandonment was mind boggling. It was difficult not to get carried away, the chances were 50/50 that it may not happen at all and I had to keep myself focused on the other reality.

The reality was this - they dug around for two hours and could only come up with my grandfathers tagged remains. He was buried in a metal container, and it had badly deteriorated. I had his remains transferred to an updated container and had him re-buried. My mothers ashes were unrecoverable, as was my grandmothers. I decided to have dirt from the open grave put into a mini urn, so the irony is this - I am now carrying around my grandmother and my mother in the same pot of dirt!!!!

How's THAT for enduring ambiguity and a lack of closure!!! - "It might have been".....

As for the "pot of dirt, perched on a pot of perch"... I drove my mini urn, or more precisely, my pot of dirt, to my aunts house and we celebrated with a dinner of perch she caught herself. I photographed the perched pot of dirt on top of the pot full of perch and we drank wine and reminisced and joked that the old bat in the pot of dirt- (my grandmother) had to crash the party too!!!