Carrying Ashes

A promise made...

Next month marks three years since my sister’s passing onto her Starrier adventures. I miss talking with her on the phone while I walked in the woods here in western Massachusetts and she walked around Lake Harriet in Minneapolis. I miss her spot-on editing and revision advice on my writing. I miss her laughter and tears on sibling vacations, her earnest effort at healing the rifts of our chaotic childhood. Gathering our families together each summer was immensely important to her. She wanted the cousins to know each other, to grow up together, despite living in California, New York, Minnesota, and New England. We made and ate delicious meals, played games, splashed, built sand castles, swam, joked, and enjoyed hours of conversation in so many beautiful places over the years.

I miss her.

Editing Starry Starry Kite is not the same these days. We started this newsletter together as a way to put our writing safely into the world. She wanted to write the truth about living with cancer. I felt compelled to figure out how I had lucked into so much love in my life. After she died, I kept it going by publishing some of the writing she left behind. I published other people’s writing, but I ran into a wall publishing my own. Without her steady hand and confidence-building red pen, I hesitated.

But the urge to write still lurks. I’ve been preoccupied with Everyday Wellbeing, the nonprofit that grew out of Yoga Outside, but stay intermittently active with a few of my writing groups. I still tinker with the story of how I learned to love and be loved.

I made a promise to one group last week. I would publish something of my own before we met again.

We meet in just a few minutes so here is a piece about bringing my sister’s ashes to her daughter in Costa Rica. Enjoy! I look forward to your comments.

Carrying Ashes

I walked confidently into the airport in Guatemala City three hours before my 6 AM flight. After a week at Lake Atitlán, my Spanish was stronger, and I had researched the words for ashes (restos) and cremains (cenizas).

I had had no problem with TSA in Hartford on my way to Guatemala. Yes, the scanner had pulled my bag to be checked by hand, but I told the agent that my sister’s ashes were in the front right corner.

“I’m taking them to her daughter in Costa Rica.”

He found the double baggied, tissue-paper-wrapped package. He wiped and swabbed it carefully, inserted the tabs into a machine to test for drugs and explosives, and then carefully re-wrapped it, placed it back into my suitcase, and let me go.

I was going to see my niece, Olivia, who was spending four months on a permaculture farm in Costa Rica. The airport was empty in the middle of the night. The Guatemalan scanner appeared less sophisticated, and had only one agent on duty.

When my bag got pulled again, I wasn’t worried.

“Estos son los restos de mi hermana,” I told the agent when she fished the package out of my backpack. She looked up sharply and dropped it abruptly on the table.

“Restos?” she repeated with wide eyes.

“Si. Son cenizas de mi hermana. Las estoy trayendo a mi sobrina.” I am bringing them to my niece.

She tilted her head, held up a single finger. “Un momento.”

I stood at the end of the conveyor belt in a dim, plain room. Other passengers came through in ones and twos. They looped their belts into their pants, slipped back into jackets and shoes, and picked up their bags. A second agent appeared behind the scanner. She dug into backpacks and retrieved full soda and water bottles and tossed them into a tray on the floor. Beth’s ashes sat in full view on the table above the mounting pile of liquids.

Some passengers expressed surprise when their bottles were confiscated. Some drank in big gulps so they wouldn’t lose an expensive aluminum thermos. I kept one eye on Beth’s ashes, the other on the growing stack of empty plastic tubs. More and more passengers placed their belongings on the conveyor belt. Over and over, the tubs accumulated and were walked back to the other side of the scanner. Others continued to walk through the scanner, collect their things, and proceed to their gates.

Time was ticking, but I still wasn’t worried. Lots of time to catch my flight.

I tried to catch the agent’s eye. “Mis cenizas,” I pointed. “Necessito las cenizas.” I need the remains. Why wasn’t she testing them? When would she give them to me and let me get to my gate?

“Tenemos que esperar,” she said. We have to wait.

Finally, a third agent, an older woman who might have been a supervisor, approached me. “Tiene el papel?” she asked. “Documento?” Do you have the document?

Oh, they needed a death certificate. I dialed my brother-in-law in Minneapolis. Joe could text me a photo of Beth’s death certificate. The call went to voicemail. Not quite 4:30 AM on a Sunday morning, he was sure to be fast asleep. I left a message, sent several texts. Even if he got up early on his day off, he could be out of reach for another two hours.

Two young police officers arrived. Progress! They would surely test the package. The agents and officers huddled around Beth’s ashes and spoke in hushed tones. They poked it with curious fingers, picked it up, assessed its heft and weight. They stole glances at me over their shoulders and then looked back at the baggie of ashes sitting in a now-wrinkled pile of tissue paper.

“Puedo tener los restos?” Can I have the ashes? The officers approached, and I repeated my plea.

The thin one, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, shook his head no. “Necesita el papel. Necesita el documento. Es illegal in Guatemala tener cenizas sin documentación.” It’s illegal to carry human remains without documentation.

I pointed to my phone. I explained as best I could in Spanish that I’d been dialing my brother-in-law, that he had a copy of the death certificate, but was still asleep. “Por favor, debo tenerlos! No es peligroso. Y si es azúcar? Y si es arena.” I need the ashes. They are not dangerous. What if it is sugar? What if it’s sand?

He looked confused for a moment. “Es azúcar? O son cenizas?”

I should have lied, but I didn’t. “No, no es azúcar. Son cenizas.” My shoulders dropped. I outstretched upturned hands. “Por favor, déjame tenerlos.” Please, let me have them.

He shrugged and walked away.

Time was ticking.

Another agent arrived, then two more officers. They conferred in a corner of the room. They each examined the baggie of ashes, picked it up, shook it, held it to their noses. In other circumstances, Beth and I might have laughed out loud at the spectacle. She loved every minute as the center of attention. Leave them, she would have said about the baggie on the conveyor belt. It doesn’t matter. I’m not in those ashes. I am everywhere.

A different agent approached me. “I’m so sorry,” he said in English. “It’s illegal in Guatemala to carry a body without documentation.” He looked over his shoulder at the circle of officers.

“I can’t leave them. What can I do?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced nervously at the officers. Then pointed at my phone. “Can you call again?” He wanted to help me. I dialed Joe.

“No answer.” I felt defeated. “I guess we wait.”

“I am so sorry.” He went back to the scanner with the other agents. Passengers continued to file through. They slipped into shoes, emptied their waters, hoisted backpacks, and dragged their carry-on luggage through the glass doors.

I sat down heavily in the closest chair and refreshed my phone. It was now after five, less than an hour before departure. I willed Joe to wake up and take my call. Beth’s ashes sat alone on the stainless-steel table a short distance away. I imagined making a mad dash, grabbing them, and running to my gate.

Except that four armed police officers stood behind me in crisp uniforms and dark berets.

When a fifth officer arrived with a German shepherd, I felt hopeful. Surely, he would allow the dog to find nothing and let me go. But he had a severe face and a firm grip on the dog’s tight chain leash. They huddled together, cast glances my way, and then moved to the ashes. The dog was entirely focused on its handler, ears alert, tail wagging. It sat immediately at the officer’s side as soon as he touched a treat bag at his belt.

Two officers set up a test. Beth’s ashes in a plastic tub with another turned upside down on top. The officer walked the dog around the set-up. The dog sniffed the tubs, knocked the top off the bottom, nosed the baggie, and then went to its handler for a treat.

I guessed that the dog was in training, but hadn’t given a positive sign. Surely, they would give me the ashes: No drugs. No explosives. No harm. No foul.

But no.

The officers conferred with the English-speaking agent who then approached me. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “They will not let you go without a document.”

“But it’s not dangerous,” I said. “Please, I need to bring those ashes to my niece. I need to make my flight.” It was now 5:30, thirty minutes until take-off.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. He paused, looked over his shoulder at the officers, all of whom had moved away. Suddenly and quickly, he picked up the ashes and handed them to me.

Tears of relief filled my eyes as I zipped them into my backpack. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Let’s go,” he said but he headed away from the doors leading to the gates, toward the airport exit.

“Wait. Where are we going? I need to get to my gate.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, one eye on the officers. “You have to leave the airport quickly.”

“What? What will I do with the ashes? Won’t I need to come back through this checkpoint? Do you want me to leave them in the trash?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “Maybe you drive?”

What? Drive to Costa Rica? Maybe I could rent a car…

We didn’t get far. Before we made it to the exit, two officers stopped us and motioned us to follow them. The agent looked crest-fallen. His body tensed. “Oh, no,” he whispered beside me. “Try your brother again. They will not let you leave.”

My mouth went dry. Was I really stuck? Were they going to arrest me?

My phone buzzed as five officers and two agents circled around me.

A text from Joe. I’m up now. Give me a minute.

It felt like a lifetime, but finally a picture of the death certificate came through. I gave them my phone. They huddled over it and laughed. “Ingles!”

“Yes, it’s in English. Can I please catch my plane?”

They each slowly scanned the document. They asked for my passport. Beth and I were both Castronovos, kept our names when we married. Finally, they agreed that I could go. Then, the supervising agent came into the circle and asked me to send her the document photo via text.

Minutes ticked by as we exchanged numbers, waited for the text to load. But then we were off. The English-speaking agent and I got through the glass doors only to find another obstacle – Customs.

Luckily, no line. “Esta cerca la sala?” I asked. Is the gate close?

“Si. No está lejos. Vamos.” Yes. Not far. Let’s go.

We ran into the airport proper. I had to get to Gate 9, but here we were at Gate 1.

I gave it my best effort and kept up with the friendly agent, pulling my bag behind me at a full run past six gates, but then came a long stretch of cafes, kiosks, book stores, and restaurants. “Run ahead,” I told him. “Go, go. Please, ask them to hold the plane.” But he stayed with me as I had to slow to a walk, breathing hard.

When we arrived at the gate, two agents stood at the desk, one at the closed doors. The plane was still parked outside at the end of the ramp.

I caught my breath as the agents spoke and hope faded. They were not going to open those doors. They would not let me get on the plane.

“There’s good news,” a young agent said after searching the computer monitor. “We can rebook you on a later flight at no charge. The next flight connects through San Salvador at 3:45 this afternoon.”

I took a deep breath; my shoulders dropped. I would lose a full day in Costa Rica, but I had my sister’s ashes for Olivia.

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