Cremation Without Service
The saltwater breeze nipped at Stella's exposed forearms as she stood barefoot on the sands of Bronte Beach. The sun, a bruised orange sinking into the Pacific, cast an amber glow on the rippling surface. It was the same fiery palette that adorned the urn nestled in the crook of her arm. Her father, a man who worshipped the sun and surf, deserved this final farewell.
A cremation without service. It may have seemed unconventional to some, a stark absence of eulogy and hymns, but for Stella, it was perfect. This wasn't about public pronouncements or tearful theatrics. It was about a father and daughter, their unspoken bond forged in stolen moments of surfing under the summer sun.
She remembered the sting of saltwater in her eyes as her father taught her to catch a wave. His gruff encouragement, the calloused hand steadying her board, the shared exhilaration of riding the crest. They didn't need words; the ocean was their cathedral, the roar of the waves their silent communion.
Today, there were no spectators, just Stella and the vast canvas of the sky. She uncorked the urn, and the wind scattered her father's ashes like stardust onto the waves. A tear slid down her cheek, but it wasn't one of sorrow. It was a tear of gratitude, a salty echo of the countless sun-kissed memories they'd shared.
As the last embers of the sun dipped below the horizon, Stella reached into her pocket and pulled out a worn photograph. It was her father, eternally young, a grin splitting his sun-weathered face, the spray of a wave frozen in time. She held it close, the cool plastic a strange counterpoint to the warmth of his memory.
Today, there were no spectators, just Stella and the vast canvas of the sky. She uncorked the urn, and the wind scattered her father's ashes like stardust onto the waves. A tear slid down her cheek, but it wasn't one of sorrow. It was a tear of gratitude, a salty echo of the countless sun-kissed memories they'd shared.
As the last embers of the sun dipped below the horizon, Stella reached into her pocket and pulled out a worn photograph. It was her father, eternally young, a grin splitting his sun-weathered face, the spray of a wave frozen in time. She held it close, the cool plastic a strange counterpoint to the warmth of his memory.