Symbols and Rituals

On June 6^th, Thailand time, June 5^th our time, it was the three-month mark of losing our boy. I have a memorial set up for him on a pine sideboard that’s been in my family since I can remember. My father spent hours refinishing it when we lived up in the Yukon. Above it hangs a painting by Ted Harrison, which my parents bought directly from him in Whitehorse. He used to date my godmother, Sara, and he’s one of my favourite artists (Jenna, of course, being my favourite) and that painting was to go to Sam when I’m gone.

Everything on the sideboard is steeped in meaning. My favourite photos of Sam; the Mother’s Day card from him that I found by chance a few days after Mother’s Day; a clay creation he made in maybe grade 4 with the etching: “To mom from boy.” There are candles I light on the hardest days; flowers I dried from dear friends and from the Gathering; a heart-shaped stone from my friend Helen, and a knitted heart my friend Val gave me at Sam’s Gathering, which I squeezed the whole time I read my eulogy. And at the centre of it all are the ashes.  

Picking up my son’s ashes from the funeral home might be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. Hard to know. There’s a lot of competition these days for “the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” The ashes arrived from Thailand on March 25^th, three days before my birthday, so I set it up to pick them up after my birthday, on the 30^th, but the whole time I was aware that my boy was sitting alone in a funeral home. On the day, I thought I was at least semi-prepared, but as it turns out, there is no possible way to be prepared to pick up the remains of your son. As soon as the death certificate came out, I couldn’t breathe. I remember the same thing happening to me in ’87 when my boyfriend, Dan Guthrie died. My lungs turned inside out. Turned into a vacuum. It was probably a panic attack but it felt like a heart attack. Jenna had to go with the flustered funeral director to get the ashes while Ward stayed with me in case I keeled over. My poor girl had to fetch her little brother’s ashes.

So now, all that’s left of my boy is on a pine sideboard in a wooden box with inlaid heartwood, crafted by my big brother, Eric. On top of Sam are his beloved dog, Neptune’s ashes, which Sam entrusted to Jenna the last time we saw him, in May 2025. Another clue that my boy knew he wasn’t coming home. Beside Sam and Neptune are my dog, Bella’s ashes. She died in 2012, and I’m thinking if I haven’t been able to let go of her ashes, how will I ever let go of Sam? The question of where to put Sam’s ashes is a very dark place that I cannot go right now.

Today, I added a wee Buddha to Sam’s memorial. It belonged to my mom, given, I think, by my sister. A Google search tells me: "The Buddha is the symbol of ultimate wisdom, mental tranquility, and the potential within all human beings to break free from the cycle of suffering and realize the true nature of reality."

I don’t know what the true nature of reality is. Mine kind of sucks these days. But this little Buddha symbolizes my openness to a deeper sense of spirituality. We choose to believe what we believe, and I’m leaning toward believing my boy is all around me. I know I can keenly feel him wrapped around my heart.  I can hear his voice in my head. I can conjure up his smile. His laugh. The Buddha to me symbolizes peace, something I hope for eventually. And it might just be a mother’s act of desperation, but sometimes I let myself believe that maybe someday I’ll see Sam again.