My father died on this day two years ago. He had requested that his body be donated to science, and my brother and I honored that request. His remains would be returned to me once the Anatomical Society was done with his body, which I was told could take up to three years. Surprisingly they were done with it within a year and a half, and I received his ashes from them last September.

I had been struggling with what do with the ashes, so when making my spring break plans a few weeks ago I decided that they would go with me wherever I ended up. He always loved to travel by car, so I strapped the box into the passenger seat (pictured here) and I spread his ashes along the 2,000 mile route I took. They were scattered in the wind at Oak Mountain State Park, into the bushes of the Louis Armstrong Park, along the trail to see Rock City, and I watched them sink in the waters of the Mississippi River. Since Dad was never one for sermons or grand statements, I would usually only say a few things while releasing him into the wild, like “Well, Buddy, you always wanted to make it to the 18th hole, so here you will always be.”

He would have liked the smallness of it, and appreciated the lack of attention it drew. And no matter how much I denied it in the months prior to having his remains, I needed to have that closure, and to have something to attach my grief to.