New Westminster

It was actually predictable that there would be a problem with picking up the ashes. My sister made every breath difficult in life; why would anything be different in death?  The police officer spoke to me through bulletproof glass, telling me that their storage space was in the process of moving, and that everything was packaged up for transport, making it impossible to retrieve my property until January 1st.  I explained to her that the officer who called specifically said I should come to get my property and did not mention anything about waiting until January 1.  What is the property? she asked me.  I think I hesitated a little strangely because I had not anticipated discussing it.  Then I told her.  Her demeanor changed.  She asked my name and date of birth, and she stepped away from the glass and went to a computer and began typing.  Tracy said, Breathe.  You're not breathing.  

The officer came back to the little window in the glass and asked me my father's name and birthdate, and my sister's name and birthdate.  More typing.  I asked for a key to the washroom while she typed more things.

Then another officer joined her and they murmured things I could not hear through the glass, and then she asked me to sit down.  Tracy and I sat and I tried to breathe and breathe and breathe some more.  It shouldn't be such a big fucking deal to pick up a box of dirt, but you know what, it is.

Eventually the second officer came out and gave me a business card, telling me he was with Victims' Services.  I'm not sure who the victim was meant to be, my sister or me.  He told me exactly the same thing that the first officer told me, that it was not possible to retrieve my sister's ashes because they would be packed up along with all the stolen bicycles and jewels and fur coats and guns and whatever the hell else is kept in police storage.  (He didn't say any of that; I just made it up.  He just said he couldn't retrieve the ashes.)

I told him I understood, and he stared at me a lot, doing the kind eyes thing that people do when they want you to know that they really see you.  I guess he had to learn that to be able to work for Victims' Services.  He said it would take about a week before he could get them out of the storage area wherever they were currently located, and offered to call me at that time.  I asked him if there was some way he could send the ashes to me rather than having me come back to pick them up.  I explained I had taken the day off work and gave me the kind eyes some more, which I was sort of hating.  He said he would find out if that was possible, and that was it.

Tracy stood on the sidewalk with me while I smoked.  How convenient that I have been carrying a mostly empty stale pack of cigarettes for the last two months since the last time I went to a staff party.  I could not have been more pleased to find these stale gross things in my bag.  I smoked just one, and then gave the remaining four to a guy who walked by us to stop myself from smoking all of them.

And that was it.  A completely unproductive day.  I returned home and opened my work email, which had 46 messages in it that I could not resist dealing with because I am neurotic and determined to burn myself out.


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