Buckle Me Tight

In memory of my son Matthew, forever 36, who died on March 11, 2017, of a rare heart cancer (two months from diagnosis to death). The following “story” is told through his eyes. How I believed he would’ve perceived the situation when I, his mother, picked up his ashes.

Thursday, March 23, 2017. Mom picks me up—what’s left of me.

The funeral director squints at her. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Stupid question. Lying answer. Mom just lost her son to cancer. Should she be a barrel of too-sweet lemonade?

“I’m fine,” Mom repeats.

But she isn’t. I can tell by her glassy eyes, the crack of her voice. She never wants to create a stir.

I wish I could tell her I’m okay. That when you’re dead, you’re dead, and you don’t know it. It’s like that silly Facebook meme: When you’re dead, you don’t know you’re dead. It’s only painful for others. It’s the same when you’re stupid.” (Except I do; I know I’m dead, but I’m only here, lingering for a short time in this in-between realm until I reach my forever home.)

Mom stares at the two jars of me. “Is this half?”

“It is.”

It’s hard seeing myself divvied up. Bits of me have already been inserted into heart pendants and teardrop charms for the females, key tags for the males. Bags of ashes went to my kids, my girlfriend—even to my estranged wife. Mom was supposed to get half for my burial; I just hope she got enough of me to hold onto.

But it shows the love my family has for me, so I shouldn’t complain.

The funeral director motions toward the door. “I’ll carry him out.”

Mom leads the woman carrying the two jars of me to her car.

I hoped Mom had her Miata so I could sit in the front seat and enjoy the top being down. One last spin with her. One last hurrah. But I forgot it was March. Snow and ice everywhere. Mom always winterizes her car come October. Besides, even in the summer, she rarely drives with the top down anymore. She doesn’t want to call attention to herself. They don’t see anything beyond the blonde hair and fancy sunglasses, Matthew, she’d told me once. They don’t notice I’m in my sixties. To me, she just looked like Mom. Beautiful, quiet, and entirely mine.

Mom opens the back door of my step-father’s twenty-year-old Lexus. The woman places the two jars of me onto the seat, buckles the seatbelt around them, and pulls it tight.

The funeral woman glances at Mom and smiles. “Must keep him safe.”

And then Mom’s off. Preoccupied. Occasionally taking her eyes off the road to glance into the rearview mirror. She’s looking for me, of course, but I’ve shrunk drastically from my six-foot frame. She can’t see me by looking between the seats, either. But I’m right here.

Then—

A semi pulls out in front of her, blowing right through the stoplight.

Mom slams on the brakes, narrowly missing the speeding jerk. Instinctively, her right arm throws itself straight across the empty passenger seat.

It’s the exact same reflex she had when we were children, the same protective motion she used when I was an adult sitting next to her. A mother’s arm, trying to stop impending danger. Even with the seat empty, she remembers how to protect her boy.

The two jars holding me are safe and secure in the back. My ashes shifted a bit. No pain, though.
Kinda felt good to be jostled. A sudden spark of life in my otherwise quiet transition.

Then, without warning, Mom grips the steering wheel, pulls to the side of the road, turns, and faces the backseat. Her face is white. She’s trembling. Tears stream down her cheeks—the ones she held back so fiercely to remain stoic in front of the funeral director.

She swipes them away.

You don’t need to be stoic with me, Mom.

I’m not.

You are. You always try to be strong.

Matthew, am not.

She is. She always has been.

She gets out of the car and opens the back door. She cradles one jar of me against her chest, carrying it to the front passenger seat. She goes back for the second. She loops the seatbelt around both, pulling one end of the strap until it’s locked tight. It’s reminiscent of the funeral director’s actions, but this time performed with a heartbreaking tenderness.

She gets back into her seat, slumps against the steering wheel, and finally breaks. She sobs.

I can’t believe you’re dead. You never deserved this.

It’s okay, Mom. I’m okay. I just want you to be okay.

I’m fine.

She’s always “fine.”

I love you.

Love you back.

She dries her eyes, blows her nose, and starts the engine. She pulls back out onto the highway.

For the rest of the way home, she drives with her left hand on the steering wheel. Her right arm is stretched out, pressed snug and protective against the two jars.

“I’m keeping you safe this time,” she says to the passenger seat. “I’m sorry I couldn’t before.”