The Caretaker

I’ve tended the ashes of my family. Generations of trauma reduced to five pounds each. Six different bodies stored in plastic boxes wrapped in velvet and cinched with golden ropes. The oldest survivor in my family tree, I was destined to bear witness and handle their remains. Somebody had to be the caretaker.

Photo by Zach Lucero on Unsplash

Grandma—who rescued our summers by pulling my brother and I from dark walls into the California light. Who abandoned her own daughter—my mother—in a 1960 divorce where she chose one kid and left the other. Her own mother had wrestled demons in a Montana mental institution. Mothers leaving daughters leaving mothers leaving daughters. When grandma died suddenly at 63, nobody else “could handle it.” I opened a credit card to buy a plane ticket and flew to California to identify her body at the morgue. Alone.

I was 29.

Our uncle—who called me his Social Butterfly and stood tall in a Navy uniform as I danced on his shiny shoes. Who died a slow death from full-blown AIDS at 40, but not until he gave his only child up for adoption, so she’d have a loving home. He’d shared his cross-dressing secrets with me because I never judged. He died twenty days after grandma, holding on long enough so she’d outlive the chosen child.

I was still 29.

Mom—who birthed me at 17 and tried but couldn’t escape the violence she thought she deserved. Who always stayed soft, despite maternal abandonment, sexual abuse, and ghosts that haunted her mind. My brother and I visited her in mental institutions and shelters, and sometimes she came over for the holidays. I’d let her last call go to voicemail, because of my own festering mother wound.

I was 42.

Our stepfather—who battled his traumas, but never laid a hand on my mother like the others before. Who wanted us to call him Dad, though we never could. He made it 35 days without her by his side, and I sang “Amazing Grace” while holding his hand as his broken heart stopped beating.

I was still 42.

Grandpa—who sexually abused and traumatized my mom, his stepdaughter, me, and God-knows-who else. Who later exiled himself in the Arizona desert but needed rescuing—his 82-year-old body wasting away in a hot tin box, wrought with rot and Raid-sprayed windows. Gallon jugs of Black Velvet kept his veins running clear and his guilt at bay. He’d outlived his own children and their mother. I didn’t let him die alone, despite all his sins.

I was 43.

My baby brother—whose DNA strands most closely matched mine. Together, we’d scattered the ashes of the five we’d lost before. Bone dust memories on the current meant to wash away our pain. Together, we’d survived it all. He was supposed to live longer and grow old like me. I held him until his last breath.

I was 50.

His body of ashes sits on my shelf. He still needs me.

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First, thank you for reading my work. It truly means the world to me.

This flash (500 words or less) non-fiction essay was written for and submitted to

Flash Editors

for the November 2024 In A Flash theme: BODY.

Even though it was not chosen for publication, I am proud of the essay. More than anything, I am thankful to have had the strength to handle what I have and still see the love and light in the world.

“Light into dark places,” friends. Always. ♥

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