The Carrier Bag

A light hearted story of letting go, told through the lens of laughter

***some reference to loss, scattering of ashes, told with humour so if you are new to loss, this might not be for you***

I went to scatter my mum’s ashes today.

I was sick of being surrounded by dead people in boxes. Mum on the bookcase, husband on the little table. I have scattered my husband in several of his favourite spots but some of him remains. I didn’t realise how much of him there would be!

A few years ago, I scattered my dad in the sea on the Northern coast as it was where we holidayed when I was a child. My mum had agoraphobia when I was little so holidays were rare, but I remember this place with fondness. For its sea, it’s beaches, it’s Victorian pier and for the kite that my dad bought me when I was 12. So, over the past 3 years I have scattered my dad here, some of my husband and now I wanted my mum to join the party.

She and my dad were inseparable. I needed her ashes to dive into the water and go find his. I felt they would be magnetised, and would swim far and wide like an excited shoal of tiny fish who moved as one in search of something they needed. In this case, my mum needed my dad. And I knew he would be waiting. He always waited for her. Always.

So I made a plan to drive to the coast, booked a hotel and arranged to meet an old friend who had offered to help me with this strange but necessary task. Unfortunately, his presence was curtailed also by death – not personally but in his work and so I found myself alone with mum in a box and husband in a huge tube emblazoned with a hot air balloon.

I so wanted to cancel but I’d missed the deadline. We were in the midst of a UK heatwave and my old car has no aircon. I was going to literally fry en route.

Fuck it, I won’t go. I’ll just lose the money, and mum can return quietly to the bookcase and nestle next to her Robert Goddard novel (into which she had secreted a personal letter from him. They shared the same surname, and she had written in delight to tell him this and also that she adored his writing – I thought it was so lovely that he replied so graciously) . On the other side was the Daisy Goodwin “101 poems to keep you sane” book she had bought me a long time ago. Another little realisation occurred. I say “I’m new to poetry” when I get tagged in a poem share. But just by writing this and seeing where she had been on the bookshelf, I was reminded by her that poetry has always been around me and to “stop messing about Gilly, you’ve always written poems”.

I just haven’t studied it – so it doesn’t count right? WRONG!!

Anyway, my boy said “Oh mum just go – a little break away will do you good”. There’s method in his madness. He rarely gets the house to himself and I get that – but he’s also a great motivator! In the end, I didn’t cancel and the words of a friend echoed, “oh you’ll be fine. It’s cooler on the coast”. That did it. I needed some air, I needed to breathe, and I fancied a meal out with a nice cool glass of wine. I’d stayed here before and felt comfortable even when dining alone so I thought why not.

I threw a load of stuff in a bag. Because I wasn’t meeting anyone, I didn’t have to worry about how I looked. But then I relented and decided to take a long black summer dress which surprised me. But it was so warm and I thought – no you bloody will waft down to dinner even if you are on your own. You don’t need someone to dress up for – you can do it for you. I smiled inwardly at that. My embers sparking a little more to the point they ignited into a lovely glowing fire burning quietly yet solidly in the grate.

I pootled along the motorway windows open, hair flapping but it was cool and comfortable. The next thing I knew I’d arrived. I settled in ordered some lunch and sat in the corner probably trying to remain unnoticed.

I’d just finished my lunch, with my back to the room so I didn’t have to make eye contact when PLONK – down sits an older lady in the next table across. She starts chatting immediately like we’re old friends. I was texting someone on my phone at the time but she wasn’t for giving up so I put it down and struck up a chat. Within minutes she’d told me that her husband died 3 years ago, that she was here with her grand-daughter and lived locally. She asked me a few questions; you’re here on your own are you? Where do you live? Then out of the blue, bold, easy, with a beautiful northern bluntness – “Did your husband die too?”. Just like that. No embarrassment. Just the words of a woman who knows – who recognises. “Yes” I stuttered but recovered because she wasn’t scared to ask. Her daughter turned up – she filled her in on my status and what ensued was the most wonderful conversation about widowhood but not as you’d expect – oh no! Once we’d done the details it was all about dating! It was hilarious – should I do online datin? She wasn’t bothered. Her daughter joined in, divorced, new partner, wishes she hadn’t because she likes her house tidy. A friend of theirs in her 70’s sees her partner 4 days a week then sends him home. Honestly it was the best. Even when I told them about the ashes scattering they didn’t balk and instead reassured me – oh loads of people will have been scattered out there - just do it.

So, I did.

The next morning, after encouraging words from a friend, I got mum’s ashes and walked over the dunes towards the sea. I knew that the tide was due in (thanks Substack friend for providing tide times) but it was still a bloody long way off. I knew I couldn’t carry both Mum and Hub all that way, so I had decided it had to be mum. I popped her box in a carrier bag and set off. It’s hard work walking on sand isn’t it? I was slipping all over the gaff but once I got to the wetter sand it held a firmer grip and I walked with purpose towards the sea. The sky was dark and moody – atmospheric! I loved it. I decided I wasn’t going to do a big speech at the waters edge because I felt self-conscious. So, I talked as I walked telling mum what I needed to, saying prayers and repeating a spiritual phrase given to me by a good friend and echoed by another. It was short and sweet.

“Be still and know that I am God”.

It was enough. I didn’t need more. The occasion deserved reverence wrapped in gentle words. I repeated it like a mantra and that helped to still my soul too.

I got to the water’s edge and moved to lift Mum’s box of ashes out of the Morrison’s carrier bag. Suddenly, the wind picked up and whoosh! The carrier bag flew off down the beach. First thought – “oh no! I can’t litter”. So, I ran after it. Down the beach I ran. It was like comedy capers. As soon as I was about to pick it up, another gust lifted it playfully into the air and moved it along the beach. But still I ran, like an idiot, chasing a carrier bag while mum sat in a box, the tide creeping nearer and nearer. No this isn’t how it’s supposed to be – this is serious! And I can’t litter!!!! Oh no the receipt has come out of the bag – more litter – this is a disaster.

Nothing for it. I had to stop. I watched the bag, roll down the beach chased by the receipt like a weird game of tig. And then I realised. And the biggest smile climbed onto my face.

My mum and dad didn’t really do outings in their later years. They lived a quiet, happy, contented life. But every day they used to walk hand in hand to their local supermarket.

Morrisons

In that moment I knew that mum and dad were watching from above, a sign that they knew they were about to be reunited. I could hear mum laughing saying – “Oh one more time Peter, move the bag, lets watch her run. She’s being far too serious about this”. And he’d reply “Watch this Den (Denise), I’m gonna make it jump in the air”.

I laughed and I cried and that’s what grief is to me. Moments of light and shade. There is always a glimmer of joy in every moment. Even the sad ones. And that’s how I live life. Not with toxic positivity. But with an open heart which allows all moments to arrive and be received without a thought for if they are suitable. Because if the universe gives you a gift of laughter in dark times, it’s because it knows you need it. So open your hands and your hearts and look for the glimmers. They are always there waiting to be found.

Mine was in a carrier bag.