Light My Fire, A Contemptible Cremation

       The self-justifying confessional is alive and well.  And on occasion, you encounter an anguished tale face to face.  I have a service provider who I’ve been with for a few years now.  I have noticed that appointments with him take longer than required to accomplish their purpose.  That’s because Dave has a need to talk.

       I use that alias for him because of this personal story he related.  His father was living in Florida.  His brother also resided there, and Dave lived and worked in Illinois where the family originated.  Word came to Dave that his elderly father was close to death so Dave boarded a plane to Florida and met up with his brother.  They had a bedside visit with their Dad before he expired.  Their Dad made clear his last wish—that he be buried beside his dear wife in Illinois.  They assured him they would do as he asked.  The father passed away, at peace that his sons would see to his final resting place.  The Florida brother began inquiries into modes of transportation of the paternal remains back to Illinois.  Dave stepped in and wised his brother up.  “No way we’re going to send him back to Illinois.  It’ll cost an arm and a leg. We’ll cremate him and then have a brief service here.  That will save a lot of dough.  No transport costs.  No plot.”

     The brother resisted but he was no match for Dave’s resolve.  He assured his brother there was no harm.  Dad wouldn’t know.  After all, he was dead.  The fire was lit and the flames reduced the paterfamilias to ashes and dust.  Dave returned to Illinois, to his family and his job and all seemed well.  But there are those voices that whisper in the night, the shadows that speak from the corners of the room, and they seemed to say, “Shame, liar, heartless son.” 

     Dave is not easily shaken.  What they did was logical, sensible.  It would have been a terrible waste of money to ship Pop back just so he could be buried beside his wife.  They had to make a decision.   “And we did the right thing, the sensible thing.  At least I believe we did.  What do you think?  Did I betray my Dad?”  I looked at Dave.  I let a minute pass.  My impulse was to rise from my chair, plant both hands on his desk, lean into his face and exclaim, “Of course you betrayed him, you cheap-ass son of a bitch!  You lied to him. You dishonored his last wish.  You fried your father!”  But I didn’t say what I thought.  I just repeated “Betrayed?  Betrayed?  Well, some would say you did.  But what matters is how you feel about it.  What’s your verdict?”  He replied, “I think we did the right thing.  The best thing.”

     Since that narrative was disclosed, rationalizations about other matters have crawled from Dave’s craw.  But in my view he’s never topped the story of breaking his word to his dying parent.  Short of parricide, there is no filial transgression more repugnant than breaking the bond of a last wish.  I hope Dave is always haunted by his selfish monetary motives.  I think of him as “Dad-Fryer-Dave,” the contemptible cremator.