From The Ashes

When I found this story on my computer, it took a long time for me to remember what the topic for it actually was. I guess that's just evidence of how long it's been since I've done anything to this blog...

It was a loud silence, the kind that makes every second seem to last an age. It was broken only by the slow 'tick... tick...' of the clock on the wall, which only accentuated how awkward we had become in one another's company.

It had been so long since we'd been able to talk together properly. Not since the funeral...
"So..." He was the one who spoke first, tapping his fingers self consciously on the kitchen table at which we sat. "How have you been?"
"You asked me that already, Dad."
"Oh, yes. Of course."
I spooned some more soup into my mouth, trying not to grimace at the foul taste. His cooking still hadn't improved.
"Dad..." I began, unsure how to frame this question. He glanced up from his bowl, glad that I had taken the initiative. 
"Yes?"
"Dad, what did you do with..." I took a deep breath, and steadied myself.
"What did you do with her ashes?"
He actually flinched. It was the first time we'd mentioned her in three years. But I had to ask.
"Wh... Why do you ask?"
I found myself hating him. 
"Goddammit, Dad!" I yelled. "We haven't spoken about her for years! Why do you insist on forgetting about her? I'm her son, just as I'm yours, and I want to know what you did with her ashes! Is that too much to ask?"
My onslaught trailed off as I saw the tears spilling down his cheeks and into his soup. 
"I've still got them." He whispered. "I couldn't bear to throw them away."

It was a long drive to the bush from Dad's house. We were silent the whole way, and I cradled the box in my arms as we sat.
He kept on casting me nervous glances, as though afraid I would explode again. I detested him for it. He was such a coward.
Finally we arrived. I opened the door and got out of the car, starting the walk through the bush without waiting for him. I heard him running after me, and when he reached my side he was panting slightly. I didn't even look at him.
Then we were out of the bush, and into our clearing. Our clearing: funny how I called it that. Even though technically we never owned the place, it was our secret. Our camping spot.
Her favourite place. It had changed a bit since we had last come here. it was more overgrown; bracken and shrubs had taken over the otherwise clear ground, and it seemed smaller.
But it was still ours, still full of memories. All three of us would sit around the fire, laughing and talking, telling stories... It seemed so long ago.
There were the ashes and stones where we used to have the fire, there was that tree that I always used to climb when I was younger. I could see where I carved my name into it with my pocket knife.
Dad looked at me, and I found I wasn't angry any more.
"Here." I said decisively, and opened the box. Together, we scattered her ashes to the wind.