If you seek practical guidance on the administrative tasks following the death of an elderly parent—often referred to as “sadmin”—I may not be the best resource. Most of the successful arrangements were handled by my sister, while my own contributions led to a series of unexpected complications. However, if you require insights regarding the ritual of scattering ashes, I can share plenty of knowledge, albeit learned just moments after it would have been beneficial to know.
We had made thoughtful preparations, particularly in choosing the location for the ash-scattering—a cottage that our mother had frequented for many years and remains vacant. Upon her passing, I received a lovely handkerchief from a friend, which I took along in case emotions ran high. The day was beautiful, and I was accompanied by loved ones, armed with a bottle of water and my vape. What could possibly go amiss?
Although the cottage was devoid of occupants, the neighboring house had a pleasant resident, and it only struck us at the gate that we hadn’t considered her feelings about our actions. Would she be willing to assist? Would our activities make her uncomfortable? Do individuals with religious beliefs view such matters differently than atheists? These are questions we should have explored prior to our arrival.
The garden was animated with guinea fowl, which was both new and puzzling—what had deterred them from visiting before? My mother was a formidable presence, yet she had always shown kindness to birds. Additionally, we hadn’t researched whether ashes are safe around fowl. The wind was quite strong, causing the ashes to disperse everywhere, even into my eyes. I later met with a friend who joked that she was certain she had swallowed a bit of her father’s ashes. Such feelings are not easily found through a simple online search, though perhaps ChatGPT could offer some insights.
I found myself surprisingly composed, as there were always practical questions to address—“Does anyone have a wipe?” I didn’t, but I did have a handkerchief. Memories flooded my mind, vivid yet fleeting, reminiscent of rabbits darting across the landscape: how our mother would become exasperated by the noise from the M1, her fierce defense of the rambler’s right of way against farmers, and her observations about the land, predicting, “One day soon, all this will be town,” revealing a misunderstanding of green belt laws and the significance of agriculture in the UK economy.
Would this have been her ideal farewell? I suspect she might have preferred a more solemn approach rather than a light-hearted one. Nonetheless, we can always return for another attempt. No one ever cautions you about the sheer volume of ashes to be scattered.
Zoe Williams is a columnist for The Guardian.
