My Mother is the Ocean

My mother is the ocean. She became the ocean by request, embodying the multitude of all that water contains. Months before she left this life—surprising everyone who knew and loved her—she told me she wanted to be cremated and her ashes given to the ocean. It was a conversation I thought I could tuck away for a distant future. But just shy of her 50th birthday and a few months after that seemingly random conversation, I found myself holding her essence, now locked away in a gold box handed to me by a funeral director.

I was unprepared to be without her. Nearly seventeen years later, I still stumble at times, feeling my way through the darkness of life without her. No one teaches you how to fulfill the requests of your dearly departed.

Grief comes in waves, and as you rise and fall with it, you try—over and over—to find the strength to honor their wishes. I had the chance to do so a little over a year after her passing. I was traveling to celebrate a friend's wedding on an island by the sea. At the time, I was in my twenties, in the early days of my career, and barely scraping together enough to afford the trip. Unsure of when I might again have such an opportunity, I brought her—a strange plus one, to be sure.

In my suitcase, alongside swimsuits and flip-flops, were my mother’s ashes, along with a death certificate and cremation documentation—the paperwork required to travel with your deceased loved one. Each day of that trip, I searched for the right time, the perfect location, and the courage to let her go. I imagined her weary of that box, waiting for her next journey to begin.

On the morning of our last full day, I woke before dawn without an alarm and knew it was time. I dressed quickly, took her with me, and walked to a secluded spot on the beach. At the edge of the Atlantic, I prepared to say goodbye again. I envisioned her joining an ocean of ancestors. As I sat at the water’s edge—crying, praying, and speaking to her—I could hear the old deacons from my childhood church intoning, “Take me to the water.” It felt like a Sunday morning baptism service, except it was just me, my momma, the ocean, and God.

Time lost its meaning, as it had since she passed, stretching into something shapeless and ungraspable. Eventually, I opened the box, revealing the plastic bag of ashes—the final physical form of my mother. I waded into the ocean and began to pour, watching as the ashes scattered and dissolved, carried away in all directions to distant waters. She was now one with the ocean, freed from the worries of this life and floating in eternal glory.

My mother is the

ocean, and each time I enter the water, I greet her. The ocean is now my home.