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A Plastic Box

My sons ashes aren’t in an urn. He sits on my dresser, inside the bag with a charred metal tag, held in the generic plastic box the funeral home packaged him into when he was cremated 3 years ago today.

The week after Sloan died, we sat in the office of the funeral home to choose the “manner of final disposition”, we had already decided on cremation long before. There was no question, no doubt. But when the day came that we knew his earthly body would be reduced to ashes, I struggled greatly with the idea, the visual, the whole thing.

In reality, neither option we had would’ve been something I dealt with “well”. I felt like there was no such thing as a “better choice” when deciding what to do with our deceased child’s body. I don’t regret the decision we made, I know it’s what was right for us, and for him.

He was cremated three years ago today and still, he sits in that generic plastic container. I’ve attempted to pick out an urn a thousand times, and I give up every one of them. Nothing feels good enough, nothing feels like it can hold the heaviness of his absence, despite how weightless his ashes may be.

Of course an actual urn would be better than a plastic box. The logical part of me knows this. But I scroll through endless pages of urns, and, they all look like urns. Its not that I want something other than an urn, I’ve been given a plethora of suggestions regarding this. I don’t want something else. I just want so desperately not to have to make this decision. It’s a part of our reality I have not yet wanted to face.

Someday I’ll get there, just not today.

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