I have Steve’s ashes…

I have had a piece of glass in my foot all day. It doesn’t hurt all that bad until you touch it. I had gotten it this morning on the way to my dental appointment and in my rush, I couldn’t find my tweezers, So, I left it there, thinking it would be easier to deal with later. I was able to go ahead, put my socks on, and somehow with the cushion of my shoes, I was able to make it mostly through the day without really noticing it. Then, the sharp stabbing pain popped up again when I was walking outside barefoot across my patio. “Dang it!” I irritatingly muttered. That small little needle point pain seemed to hit just the right nerve to radiate a spike of sting lightening through my body. As I limped across the patio, careful to avoid putting too much weight on that spot, I was anxious to make it over to my cozy refuge of solitude, the porch swing. Once there, I knew I could get a better look at this little annoyance. This area outside of the house where I can sit and relax, where I can exhale…It’s my reservoir of memories, a space that holds the echoes of those before me and of those I love.

This patio that cradles the porch swing, where I now seek solace, was built by my brother and me. Each time I step onto these stones, I’m transported back to the days we spent working on it together, his laughter and quiet guidance echoing in my mind. He was a man of few words, much like Tom Hardy’s character, Forrest, in Lawless—stoic, strong, and fiercely protective. I often draw parallels between life and the stories we see on screen. Certain scenes imprint themselves on my mind, waves of feelings transported from actors in the movies into my skin in ways that words alone sometimes can’t express. Art imitating life, capturing emotions that are often too complex to articulate.

My brother carried a raw, authentic presence that commanded respect without ever needing to raise his voice. His calm, steady nature always soothed my sometimes-troubled heart, grounding me in a way that only he could. Even in his silence, he taught me so much. His wisdom seeped into every pebble of sand and every intricately cut paver placed in this space. And now, whenever I need him, this is where I come. The warmth of our shared memories fills the air, turning this patio into a sanctuary of peace and connection, a place where the past gently mingles with the present.

“You’re handling everything that’s happened this past year incredibly well,” my husband remarked. I seemed to have gently walked through the last couple of months seemingly without limping along. The days filled with the love of my family, daily tasks and responsibilities acting as cushions for the tender spots. Work has always been my go-to objective distraction, a busy fog that keeps the pain at bay, but my body remembers. It was only a matter of time before it poked its head back out again. Of course, asking for help was out of the question. Just like putting on my shoes and heading to appointments with that shard of glass in my foot, I preferred to push through rather than seek assistance. I could ignore it, get through life until some random thing happened…

“Hi Tonya…we will be passing through Charleston later today. I have Steve’s ashes…” A text notification popped up on my phone.

I realized I had been pretending my stepdad wasn’t gone at that very moment as panic passed through my body with the idea of getting my his ashes. I secretly would pass by the Milton exit, where he lived, and imagine as if he was still there, just off the exit.

He wasn’t the easiest of fellas, rough around the edges but I knew deep down there was a heart of gold. In his later years, he often reminded me of the character Bad Blake played by Jeff Bridges in Crazy Heart. The lyrics from the opening song, “I used to be somebody, now I’m somebody else,” captured the essence of how I think he felt as sickness continued to overtake his manly frame. He would proudly recount his days climbing towers for AEP, and during our drives, he’d point out the landmarks of his labor—“We built those towers,” or “We put those lines in.” As he spoke, I’d watch him transform, his posture straightening, his voice filled with the confidence and strength of the young man he once was.

Looking at photos of him perched on those power lines, hundreds of feet in the air, legs dangling as if he was sitting on a steady bench, gave me a glimpse of the bravery and freedom that work had given him. Not just anyone could do what he did; he could fix anything, build anything, and his skills were admired by his coworkers and friends. He was the kind of man who would go out of his way for anyone who needed help. But when it came to his family, especially navigating the intricate subjective emotions of the women in his life, he often found himself at a loss. I saw that struggle and understood it.

Just like Bad Blake, you could see the look on his face was almost speaking, “This is all that I’ve got.”

My stepdad and I shared a love for the same movies and music, finding common ground in these simple pleasures. We also shared laughter together. We were always the first to call each other when we heard a funny joke—a fleeting moment of joy amidst the heaviness of so many challenging days. Those memories bring a smile to my face because of the laughter we shared in those moments.

As I held my stepdad’s ashes, I physically froze and distracted myself with conversation.

In some part of my mind, I had kept him alive, hoping for one more conversation…the truth was like a shard of glass buried deep, ignored and denied, shielded by the busyness of everyday life. But there I was, standing, clutching a bag that felt heavier than expected, a weight that symbolized the finality I realized I had denied. Inside that bag was a box—his box, my stepdad’s box—and though I knew his soul had long since departed, I could still sense his presence. I haven’t yet mustered the courage to open it. The weight of reality was a pain still lodged in my heart, a reminder that I hadn’t processed everything yet. I grew frustrated with myself for taking so long, as if healing could be hurried. “God, I don’t want to cry anymore. I don’t want to feel this sadness, this guilt, this crushing heaviness on my chest,” I pleaded with God. I was exhausted, desperate for some relief from this heavy part of life.

And, moments later…there I saw it…

There is one photo of my stepdad that brings me happiness each time I see it. I have this one photo on my phone when he was eating a fried ice cream at a Mexican restaurant and he looked so happy. There is something about this photo that captured pure radiance and bliss all over his face. That is what I imagine him to look like now. I imagine him being able to see my nephew, his parents, his grandparents and anyone else he had lost and missed before. I imagine him FREE from pain. I understand what the phrase, “Rest in Peace,” means more than ever.

Eventually, my husband found the tweezers I needed, helping me examine the tiny piece of glass causing so much distress. I guess I needed help after all.

From the cherished moments of building the patio with my brother to bonding over music and movies with my dad—these are the memories we hold dear. They are the moments that bring a smile to our faces, filling us with happiness and laughter. We surround ourselves with objects, reminders, that bring us closer to those we’ve lost, imagining these material things with a kind of soul, a reflection of the people who once held them, built them, or lived within them. Alongside these mementos, we embrace those who help us heal, who gently help extract the fragments of pain lodged deep within our souls, and who ensure that the joyful memories remain alive and vibrant.

Eventually, we reach a point where the wounds no longer require bandages to stop the bleeding. Instead of allowing the scars to harden us, we tenderly work through the scar tissue, learning to walk with care once more. We become kinder to ourselves during the healing process, honoring the scars left behind, knowing they signify a life rich with love. With renewed courage, we shed the protective layers that once shielded us from the world’s harshness. We dare to navigate life’s journey with all its painful obstacles, recharging our spirits by connecting with God. With new skin, we touch the earth, absorbing its life energy with reverence. It is those who dare to walk barefoot, embracing life in all its rawness—no matter how many times they’ve felt the sting of pain—who truly come alive. These warriors, who choose to love authentically, openly, and deeply, not only enrich the lives of those around them but also deepen the meaning and purpose of their own existence.