They made the trip to Spain, though it lasted a whole three days. When they were in Madrid, Sheila, Aldo’s wife, received a message from an unknown caller that sounded urgent. When she returned the call, the voice on the other line informed her that her father had passed away. An electrical fire broke out at the assisted living facility where he lived. The voice tried to reassure her that he went peacefully and he was asleep wen the fire overtook his room, though she hardly heard these words and if she did she wouldn’t have believed them.
After receiving the news they immediately packed their bags and went to the airport to reschedule a return flight home. Sheila only had one sibling, which she considered all but useless when it came to family affairs. She knew she would need to be home as quickly as possibly to hand the funeral arrangements.
The memorial service was much like any other. A small, intimate group came to share their love and memories of Sheila’s father and to offer her their support and prayers. The only real memory Aldo holds from that day is the urn. When the crowd had cleared he walked up to that glossy ceramic container and slowly lifted its lid. He stared at the contents, that off-white powder that could be mistaken for portland cement. He was struck by how a life force, a very being can suddenly come to a halt and all that remains is a hand full of fine dust. Slowly he placed the lid back on the urn and his mind flitted back to memories of reading Adolf Loos’ essay on the urn and the chamber pot, and he felt uneasy with the fact that the leftovers of a human would be stored in either of these.
A Page a Day 