Standing in the reception area, waiting for my mother’s ashes to be brought out to me, I recalled that I’d felt quite differently about my father. I was seventeen years old when he died. In those days, I was less pragmatic than I am now—I’d liken my adolescent self to a young plant that has yet to toughen fully—and it felt important to me to see my father’s body. Perhaps it was because my relationship with him had been complex; perhaps because of the nature of his final years and demise.
