By Lynna Clark

Isn’t that a funky word? Kinda like Craisins which is the word for raisins which are actually cranberries. If you’re like me and didn’t know, cremains are the remains of loved ones who’ve been cremated. Well, I don’t guess they’re all loved. But the ones I currently am in possession of sure are. As you know, David passed away almost three months ago. We had decided together that we’d be cremated and that it would be nice to have our “cremains” scattered at one of our favorite vacation spots near the ocean.

“I’m not sure that’s legal,” David wondered as we spoke of these things years ago. “I think I’d rather have my ashes mixed with paint and sprayed onto the motorcycle so I can keep on riding.” For good measure he added, “Make it a glossy black, but don’t cover up the flames Nic ghosted in on the gas tank.” I shook my head at my crazy man and replied. “I’m not gonna have to worry about it. I’m going first anyway, so just pick a place at the beach and sprinkle me into the waves. You’ll probably want to stand up wind though so you don’t end up wearing me home.” He got a weird look on his face then somberly said. “Don’t you dare die first. I can’t stand the thought.”

So annyyywayyy… here I am, three months later without the strength to travel to the beach or anywhere else for that matter. I don’t want to task this adventure to our daughters, so I ordered a small wooden box for the cremains. It’s really pretty with a tree carved in one side. I decided I could live with my beloved’s cremains sitting on our bedroom dresser. No biggie. Then I found a nice little nameplate and had it personalized with his full name, dates, and the salutation he put on all his school correspondence to parents and such. “In His care,” was especially fitting. When it came, I opened the package with reverence, looking forward to seeing this sweet tribute to the man who loved me so well. Look how great it turned out.

Oh well. Somewhere in Gloryland, David is getting the last laugh. Or should I say “Sparky?”