10,000 Miles with My Dead Father's Ashes

by Devin Galaudet

  I looked around and consciously took long, slow breaths in through my nose and out of my mouth. Daria, out of respect, looked down and shuffled her feet. Javier and Anna quietly chatted, and Cesar sat in his car and waited for his music cue.

  For a moment, I was afraid Dad’s whole head would be just squished into the bucket and would have to be pulled out by his hair. I pulled out the tub, let the backpack fall to the floor, and set Dad on the concrete railing, which overlooked calm waters that made a lapping sound on the shore below. I took a deep breath of salty mist and tried to slowly exhale in an attempt to control my emotions.

  It did not work.

  I heaved out a breath that staggered several times at the end. I slid my long thumbnail in the gap between the lid and the bucket’s sidewall. I could feel the paper and plastic dig between the nail and thumb, cutting into me as I slipped along the two sides that had been taped down by a big white label that had Dad’s name on it: Henry David Galaudet.

  The top came off without any of the expected sound effects. No vacuum-packed belch or pressure hiss like when opening a can of minestrone. Inside was a sealed clear plastic bag that had a piece of white tape that held the bag closed, almost like what might be on the end of a cheap loaf of bread. I pulled the gathered plastic, like a handle, out of the black plastic jug. It was a snug fit, and I pulled hard to get the bag unmarried from the jug. I set the jug and lid on the floor and listened to the wind while I held the bag tightly. Anna and Daria stepped forward next to me while I readied myself.

  I turned to Cesar and nodded. Then I turned back to the sea and looked out. The music started and filled the gaps of silence left by the wind and the rolling waves, and, for a moment, Dad and I were the only two people in the world. All of my anxiety and insanity cooled. So did my anger toward him. My legs felt secure under me. I was left with nothing but sadness. Not the hyperventilating kind that needed a paper bag, just a deep sense of overwhelming loss.

  I punched open the top of the bag with my car key and tore it open wider with my fingers. That got gray ash on my finger, which I intuitively put in my mouth. It tasted like nothing in particular, and the act felt appropriate. I now know that if I were ever left alone in a room with moon rocks, I would eat them.

  “Ave Maria” flowed from Cesar’s car. It is a song made for sadness and mourning. I cleared my throat and heard my voice escape in short, weak bursts as the melody transported me back to a time when I was small and helpless but resilient. The breeze swept a light trickle of dust from the bag into the air. I resisted the urge to take a fistful in my bare hand and let it slowly pour back into the bag. I knew this was the time and this was the place to let go. It was finally finished, and I could say Dad was home. If there is an afterlife, I think Dad would have agreed.

  “Ave Maria” kept playing.

  I pulled out a printed email from Cathy. She had asked me to read what she had written. She started with “My Beloved” and wrote plainly of her sadness, gratitude, and their life together. It was short and apropos. As I put her letter away, I wished her well in a small prayer. Praying was something I rarely did when not feeling trapped in a foxhole.

  When it was my turn. I pulled out my letter to him. The paper was frayed on the side from being yanked out of a spiral-bound notebook, and creased from being sat on in my back pocket all day. After unfolding it, I read the opening lines to myself. It was filled with hostile questions, finger-pointing, self-importance, and loads of judgment.

  Intellectually, I knew that Dad had been dead for more than two years, so it did not matter what I said. Spiritually, I knew this was the last time I would do anything for him ever again. Was this how I wanted it to end? I wondered whether my questions and sarcasm accomplished anything. I wondered whether my act of service and love for him would be tarnished by an act of unforgiving defiance at the finale. I looked over at Anna, who dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex. She did not know about my history with Dad. She was at my dad’s funeral and there to support someone she barely knew. I folded the letter up and put it in my back pocket. Then I spoke.

  “Dad,” I said. “I mean, hey, Dad. What’s it like there? I just want you to know that I am grateful to have had you in my life. I know you did the best you could. I know that you would have been dangerous if you had been given a few more chances, like the ones you gave me. I wish I had been a more understanding son. I wish I would have held on to that broken BMW a little longer. I wish I had thrown you a few more bucks when you needed it. I wish I would not have changed the locks when you left the last time I saw you. I really feel bad about that one. I wish I had given you more credit for being the most important person in the formation of my life.”

  I took a long sad breath while Cesar restarted the song.

  “Anyway, I hope to run into you when it’s my turn to go toward the Light.”

  With that, I had nothing more to say. There was only one thing left to do.

  However, on that day in Spain, surrounded by kind strangers who mourned alongside me on a pier in Dad’s new home of Cádiz, a place that perfectly accepted Dad’s imperfections as a father and a man, I poured him into the sea. Whether he drifted in calm waters to dissolve, be eaten by fish, settle at the bottom of the sea floor, or perhaps sail a benevolent current to northern Africa—it didn’t matter.

  He returned home, where his hatchet, brass elephant, and other human frailties were forgiven.

  I leaned over the railing and watched him fall, like sand at the beach, between my fingers, the same way heaping cups of sugar naturally mix into a tall pitcher of lemonade on a hot summer day.

  “A fucking lemonade reference? What kind of shit is that?” I heard Dad’s voice call to me from a dark, smoky bar in the sky.

  Lemonade or not, I think Dad would have loved Old Cádiz, with its warm smells and winding, imperfect roads that accepted him just as he was. When it’s my time, maybe someone who is pissed with me will return me to a spot that looked out to Africa and set me adrift in my dad’s home and find peace.

  A long, thin, gray funnel of my father disappeared into the sea, to become some other thing on some other side. He will most definitely be kicking my ass when I am one hundred.

  Author’s Notes

  I will forever see my father through the eyes of a seven year-old. It means he will always be a little godlike to me. When I think of him, which is often, he brings forth a sense of wonder, mystery, and magic. He will forever be the toughest, most interesting, and most fascinating person I have had the pleasure to know. No one could take me so high or drop me so low. I don’t temper my experience of him in these pages.

  My memories are by their very nature imperfect. I can only acknowledge this flaw. I did everything I could, during the seven years I spent writing my story, to recreate scenes as I remembered them. I did the best I could to capture the nuances of our relationship and how I understood him as a father and a man.

  I must also acknowledge Dad was a storyteller. I write about what he told me, and others, with a certain amount of question marks floating in the air—particularly around why he wanted to go to Spain in the first place. And much like my truth in these pages, I believe that Dad’s stories were his truth.

  I accept that family, friends, and even strangers might disagree with my take on all of this. It’s okay. I can hope that they understand this homage contains my truth that must start and end with me. While I take responsibility and stand behind every word in this book, it was never my intention to hurt anyone, especially the memory of my father who continues to be my greatest hero, and to remember him only with a sense of wonder, mystery, and magic.

  Acknowledgements

  To me, this book is a miracle. Not because it is like the Bible but because I have no idea how 10,000 Mile with My Father’s Ashes got finished. Fortunately, I was not alone in the process. If it weren’t for the consistent support of smart, talented writers who met in my living
every Thursday night at seven thirty for our writers’ group, none of this would have happened. Each week they challenged me, listened to my complaints, and encouraged me through rough drafts and final edits alike. Tisha Richle, Lisa Holdren, Kat Kambes, Lalanii Grant, and others showed up week after week with their own writing and snacks to share and make my week. They kept me accountable to my story and didn’t allow me to settle for anything other than my best effort.

  Once the story was finished more people offered needed criticism and feedback, responded to flustered emails, and encouraged me more than they could ever possibly understand. Krista Vernoff, Kent Black, Toni Ann Johnson, Ken Shapiro, and Seth Fischer, thank you.

  Of course, the tourism board of Spain and Cádiz, who unwittingly helped write this book and took everything I did in stride with great hospitality. As a side note, I am proud to have written a number of articles about Spain and Cádiz. A place I love!

  My publisher at Rare Bird Books let me sit in his office and ramble on about vintage guitars for two hours. Their fantastic support team, who also let me yammer on, are rock stars! For their support, encouragement, and the predestined way our partnership unfolded, I am grateful for team Rare Bird including: Tyson Cornell, Guy Intoci, Julia Calahan, Hailie Johnson, and Jake Levens, who took a chance on this writer.

  My mom, whose patience and endless zaniness have always made life fun, and made life with Dad seem marginally normal. Yes, I have always been an insolent child, and I appreciate all you had to put up with from Dad and me. Love always.

  And finally, my wife, who I embrace as the perfect person to travel through life with. I have never heard her say with a certain exasperation in her voice, “I married a writer. Ugh.”

  I am grateful for all of your selflessness and good will. You will forever be my heroes.