Alchemy

I clamber down to the rushes by the water's edge carrying a strange package in my hand. A plastic bag full of a substance with the texture of fine gravel. It's heavy and I grasp it tightly. It's all that remains of your physical body. A bag of ashes picked up from Distriksveterenärerna in Söderköping, where Bodil and I said our goodbyes to you on April 23rd 2019.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," is this all that remains of your life?

At the marshy boundary between the boulders and the waters edge I scatter some of your ashes. The sun shares its last rays on a day that has been stormy and changeable. A day on which I have flown back from a visit with my mum in England. Back to Sweden, where you and I have lived since last July.

The sun's rays illuminate the pale yellow reeds and suddenly they are gold.

It feels strange being level with the reeds and seeing the leaden water beyond. The reeds are almost as tall as me. I feel like a small child grasping the beanbag of ashes like the hand of a parent.

I retreat up to the huge and ancient birch tree where one day I may build a deck. It's a place where mum wishes to have her ashes scattered, but Helén has told me that sprinkling human ashes on one's own property is not allowed. Maybe its okay for animals?

Since the bag is not empty I re-visit some of your favorite spots. The patch of no-man's land between our house and the tumble-down shack next door has sprouted tall green grass in the past few weeks. I scatter some ashes there to mark your presence. Then I progress to "Felix's Freaky Friggebod." For some reason you would crawl under it, drawn no doubt by the scent of some critter.

Walking down to the water's edge where you liked to paddle I dump the remaining contents of the bag unceremoniously into the water. A sudden breeze blows fine grey powder up into the air and all over my wellies and the old grey trousers I'm wearing.

The geese honk as the sun sets and the remaining ashes sink to the bottom of the shallow water where they form a thin layer of white on the mossy concrete slope.

And that is that.

Tears come again, as they did earlier when I returned to the empty house with my suitcase. 

Now I'm inside, watching the bag and cardboard box decorated with a Greek key design explode into flames in the hearth. Suddenly they're gone.

I feel cold in the house after spending time with mum, dad, my brother and his family in England. I keep feeding the dying embers with more logs, reluctant to let the fire die out.

Grief turns to the realization that I must write. Writing is the only way I have of processing the loss that overwhelms me.

What is this thing we call life? We are here for a brief few years, and then gone. Impermanence the Buddhists call it. Life is full, and then it's over.

They were busy at the vet's today. A large chestnut horse stood outside the door politely waiting with his owner and a German Shepherd. Inside were two black poodles, two wiry Cairn terriers and a gorgeous soft Golden Retriever pup gathered up in the arms of a young woman in a white jacket. I admired him and stroked his soft fur, he licked my hand and looked at me with his dark eyes, trusting and curious, just like you did.

You taught me so much about love and life Monty. I could not have lived here, out in the Swedish countryside by the Baltic Sea all winter without you, I realize that now.

You taught me about devotion, faithfulness and patience. Your presence gave me what I needed to recover from stressful years in California and stressful days of teaching in Norrköping.

My grandmother embroidered the banner hanging over the sofa that says "Trogna vänner äro alltid välkomna," "True friends are always welcome."

Monty, you were a true friend. The best friend I ever had. I sense your presence around me but I miss your warm, soft fur and your kind, brown eyes, and your wet, black nose.

Medieval proto-chemists said we are made of earth, air, fire and water, but also of something intangible. The spark of life animates the body. In a process of alchemical magic it turns matter into spirit, lead into gold. Where does this spark go when we die?

Like the ashes that will sink into the soil and nourish future life, I sense that your spirit is here.