I was eighteen when my mother lost her five-year battle with colon cancer. She died in a hospital in Washington D.C., where she went after her doctors in Atlanta told her that there was nothing more they could do for her. Ever since we lost her two weeks earlier, I'd had a hard time keeping away from my father's side for very long. En route to Cape Cod from Atlanta, we stopped to pick up her ashes from the mortuary where she'd been cremated.

"Dad, what are you doing out here? It's freezing!"
"Claire, give me a hand. Hold this Ziploc bag open for me, will you?"
I looked down into the truck and took a shocked step back.

In the trunk sat the bag containing my mother's ashes. With one hand my father was trying to hold open a Ziploc bag and transfer some of the ashes from one bag to another using one of my Aunt Pam's serving spoons.

"Now don't get upset, Claire. There's no other way to do this," he said to me calmly. I stared back at him and then glanced into the trunk again. "But why are you doing this right now?" I asked, reluctant to get involved. "Claire," he sighed, "we're leaving tomorrow and I want us to take some of these up to Nauset Beach."

Nauset Beach is a beautiful stretch of ocean midway towards the tip of Cape Cod. It is a national park untouched by clustered homes and crowded shores. There, in 1976, on a picnic in private alcove of sand dunes, my father had proposed to my mother. On our annual summer trips to Cape Cod, my mother and I always reserved a whole day for our walk on Nauset Beach. We'd stroll for hours, our feet on wet sand, picking up shells and rocks and talking.

I reached into the trunk and held the Ziploc bag open for my father. He dug the serving spoon into the large bag of ashes and shifted them into the one I was holding. A gust of wind came and blew the top layer off the spoon, out onto the driveway where it faded into the gravel. I grimaced and looked down into the bag. The ashes were a dark grey, thicker and more substantial than any I'd ever seen. Tiny white shards were mixed into what was mostly powdery substance.

An hour later we were parked at Nauset Beach, trudging through the sand towards the shore. It was January and the beach was completely empty. A cold wind rustled the sea grass in the dunes behind us.

My father held back while I walked to the edge of the water. I stood as close as I could; trying not to get my shoes wet. I took a deep breath, sighed out the word Mom, and opened the Ziploc. I shook half the contents out over the water and watched them swirl into the foam. Some of them blew back at me and I stepped out of the way, looking to the line of horizon, as far as I could see. I remained there alone while my father trudged back to the dunes to find the spot where he'd told my mother that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

On our way back to Atlanta, we stopped in Connecticut and again, scattered her ashes. This time we stood on a grassy hill in an empty cemetery and let them flutter down to the grave of her father, whom she had been devastated to lose when I was fourteen.

I don't remember my parents ever discussing what would be done with my mother's ashes after she was gone, but these quiet ceremonies planned by my father seemed to ease my heart open a bit more each time.

Before I left to return home to Manhattan, my father handed me a large bag to take with me; half of what was left of the ashes. He told me to do with them what I wished. For years, they sat in the far reaches of my closet, and occasionally I would come across them, digging around for an old sweater. I felt unsure of what to do with them.

Seven years after my mother died, my father also succumbed to cancer. This time I had to make the cremation arrangements, pick up the ashes, and plan the memorial service. It was one of the most difficult periods of my life, but after my mother's death, my father and I formed such a deep bond, that I never felt the absence of his love in my life. His guidance, so central to the experience of mourning my mother, helped counsel me through much of my grief. And so it was, seven years later, that I found myself alone in his kitchen in Southern California, a Ziploc bag in one hand, a serving spoon in the other.
At the memorial service, my half sister asked to scatter some of his ashes, so I raced back to the house ahead of her to begin the Ziploc ritual. This time, there was nothing strange about it, and I calmly prepared a bag for her, careful not to spill anything.

The one-year anniversary of my father's death was the day I decided to introduce my boyfriend to the Ziploc ritual. Packing for a trip to Rome, I dug two carefully sealed bags out of the closet. "Honey, meet my mother," I said, holding up one bag, "and my father," holding up the second. He laughed gently and was soon holding open the Ziploc as instructed. For this trip, I mixed some of my parents' ashes together.

I plan to take my father's ashes to Nauset Beach and to the graves of his parents in Michigan. As for my mother's, I'm still not entirely sure what to do with the rest of them. I figure I'll carry some of both their ashes wherever I go, spreading them throughout the world in places that were that were not only significant to them, but also to me.

I think I'll also save their ashes to be scattered with mine, which means that someday I'll have to introduce my own children to the Ziploc ritual.

There are many different ways to care for the ashes of someone you love . Some people have them buried in a cemetery, marked by a headstone. There are companies like Ashes on the Sea (www.ashesonthesea.com) who arrange trips out to sea to scatter ashes, and provide rose petals or wreathes to enhance the ceremony. If in doubt, WR would encourage you to come up with you own ritual.

Claire Bidwell Smith is a writer and a full-time grad student getting her masters in clinical psychology. She works in two community mental health clinics as a psychotherapist. She lives in Los Angeles.
You can read more about Claire in her award winning blog www.clairebidwellsmith.com