Holthoff 1

Ashes to Ashes
For me, grief has become seasonal. It arrives in cycles, each phase accompanied by a
torrent of emotions. Spring fills me with optimism, while autumn provides the groundwork for
my seasonal depression. Summer, in all its humid glory, acts as a limbo period, offering a break
from school and plenty of time to reflect. By the time December arrives, however, I am aware of
the sadness I will feel after the coming of the New Year. When I was a child, winter brought cool
relief. Solace. After dad died, this feeling was replaced by cold, bitter pessimism. Now, when I
look at the January sun, resting high above the chilled earth, I do not feel relief or reassurance. I
am only reminded of my father passing, and grief grips me like clockwork.
During the late winter months, I am suffocated by a sense of longing, as I reflect on the
final days I spent with my father. As nature sleeps under hard ground, I remember the precious
moments we shared. For the most part, these scattered glimpses into the past allow me to relive
our mutual love for the outdoors. At times, I see myself paddling down the Illinois River next to
my father, feeling the cool splash of the river on my face. Other times, I am riding on the back of
my fathers yellow Harley, through the winding roads of Cane Creek State park. Autumn leaves
gently rain down, as I hold on tight, taking in the smell of my fathers well-worn leather jacket.

***

After the funeral, I quietly sat in the back of my step-fathers blue Toyota Tundra, staring
out into the network of plains that surround southeast Arkansas. I reflected on the service, and
my familys attempts to celebrate my father. I shivered in the backseat as grief forced its way in
and slowly dissolved any attempts at rational thought. Maybe I was simply lost in regret,

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absorbing the guilt of missed opportunity that accompanies the death of a loved one. Maybe I
was looking for an answer, for some ethereal cure that would rid me of my grief.
Zep, are you okay? My mother asked after a long, painful period of silence.
I didnt respond. Even though I could hear what my mother was saying, I could not
manage a reply. Everyday words were unmanageable. I was engrossed in my guilt-ridden
thoughts as I allowed her words to pass over me.
I think he just needs some time, Tricia, my stepfather suggested.
You know, Zep, when we get back, were gonna have plenty of alcohol. Its gonna be
beer fest 2012!
Aint nothing gonna help that boy right now, Tricia. Let him work through.
I know that, Randy Im just trying to....

***

Their voices were foreign to me, and their condolences became mere background noise,
drowned by my thoughts. My body was present, but my mind occupied another space. I looked
high above the barren cornfields that surrounded me, searching for some link to my father. I
reasoned that, if I looked hard enough, I would be granted a glimpse of my old man.
The car ride was my first struggle with grief. It opened the floodgates for the dark,
morbid thoughts that his death created. I recalled the moments we had shared, attempting to
make fading thoughts concrete. Most of the time, my reflections only presented a painful
reminder that the past was dead and gone. Memories of my father leaked into my mental
dialogue, eventually manifesting themselves as an unusual sequence of dreams. These dreams
were not linear, but fragmented shards of the twenty year timeline that was our relationship.

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During my sleep, I was given the chance to see my dad again. To walk with him in the
woods. To spend time bitching about the government or praising the music we loved. His
favorite Neil Young songs would provide the perfect soundtrack as we explored Devils Den
State Park or some obscure nature trail. I could take a break from grief and enjoy the gift of
memory while I slept. This relief, however pleasant, was bittersweet and short-lived. I wanted to
sleep forever, to stay in heaven, spending an eternity with my old man. But my relief was only
temporary, because the dreams never had a fairy-tale ending. They werent gifts; they were
agonizing reminders of the past.
Once my dreams transitioned to nightmares, I would wake, feeling compelled to walk
around the cornfield that surrounded the dilapidated trailer in which I lived. I yearned for nature.
It provided me with the fresh air that allowed me to escape the suffocating blanket of grief. For
the next few months, nightly walks around the cornfield became part of my routine. I became
increasingly apathetic in my normal life. I ate very little and spoke even less. I contemplated
dropping out of school and abandoning the studies that had occupied the past two years of my
life. I just couldnt come to terms with dads passing. I remember almost nothing from that time,
outside of my morbid dreams and nightly walks. This is probably for the best.

***

In early February, when the pain was too heavy to bear, I walked into the cornfield,
carrying a small portion of dads ashes with me. I ignored the thorns and branches that pierced
my face and arms. I was drowning in grief. I tore through the woods before the sky opened to a
familiar scene: stars and open fields. The desolate rows no longer served as my sanctuary, as they

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had in seasons past: the fields had become my prison, a place for me to mourn and wrestle with
my hysteria.
I stared into the endless parallel lines of the field, and wondered why dads death had
thrown everything off course. My life had evolved into a mess of twists and circles, void of
direction, with no visible end. In that moment, death felt strangely familiar, like an old friend I
had been waiting to meet. This revelation frightened me.
I followed the turnrows, spreading the ashes of dads remains over my hands and face.
The ashes formed clouds around me, choking me as I sobbed and screamed. I started sprinting,
kicking up dirt as I tried to drive my frustrations into the ground. I had to run away. I had to
escape the disgusting, morbid thoughts that clouded my rationality. I couldnt believe that I was
driven to such an extreme conclusion.
I moved at a furious pace before I collapsed from exhaustion, and settled under a giant
oak tree. Beside myself, I continued sobbing behind my ashen mask. I cried until my head
throbbed, and my eyes began to sting from the mixture of tears and ash. I wanted to just drop
everything and give up. At that moment, I felt my life was over. I wanted to stay under that tree,
and wear the mask forever, hoping I could hide myself from the rest of the world. Under the oak,
in my little corner of the world, I could be with my dad again. Not in some dream, but in reality.
His ashes would disguise my face, and prevent everyone else from seeing my true emotions.

***

Like most people who experience loss, I still have good days and bad days. My dad still
visits me in my dreams and my nightmares, reminding me of the good times and of the pain.
When life feels unbearable, I don griefs dusty mask again, and attempt to hide my emotions. I

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cannot justify or explain my morbid habits. They lack rationality and reason, but they are my
way of perpetuating memory.

By Franz Zeppelin Holthoff

Franz Zeppelin Holthoff is a Graduate Assistant in the University Writing Center at the
University of Arkansas at Little Rock. He is in his second year as a graduate student in
Professional and Technical Writing. In his free time, he enjoys being outdoors and caring for
his dog, Rock-o.