Object-ives #15: My Morbid Companion

I wear a ring with my brother’s ashes in it everywhere I go

Amanda Kernahan wears this ring containing her brother James’s ashes to keep him close to her

I didn’t want to open it. Afraid my hands might tremble and the contents, gritty ash and tiny bone fragments, would tumble onto the floor and be lost in a crevice or swept up with crumbs and puffs of dog hair. The instructions said to send about a teaspoon of him. Slide him into a tiny plastic bag and discreetly mail him across the country. I didn’t trust myself, but it was all I wanted for Christmas that year, so I handed the instructions and the small companion urn to my husband. Trusted him to do the dirty work of looking at and touching the remains.

It had only been a few months prior, as summer was yawning to a close, that I stood with my dad and brother in the basement of a funeral home, browsing options for what would hold all that was left of my youngest brother’s body. In a grief-induced haze following James’ sudden death, we chose one large urn to be buried over our mother’s casket, along with several small miniature urns, one for my dad and one for each sibling. Companion urns. Designed to fit into the palm of your hand. Mine was a smooth silver with a rim of decorative line work. It was cool to the touch but comforting to rub a thumb along like a worry stone.

I was grateful to have a piece of him with me, a piece to keep, something to touch long after the condolences stopped rolling in. Still, an urn seemed a bit macabre to have anywhere in public, so it found a lonely home atop my dresser. It was less of a companion than a bleak decoration. I knew I could spread his ashes, but the idea never appealed much to me; releasing them into the wind somewhere felt the opposite of keeping him close.

When I saw an advertisement for cremation jewelry, it felt right. I chose a large circular ring with an imperfect chunky band, tasked my husband with the logistics, and waited to open the small ring box until Christmas. The ring was beautiful; His ashes were visible, swirls of grey held by a simple silver circle. It was a way to touch him without fear, a way to keep him with me.

James was 23 when he died. There was so much in life he didn’t get to experience. That was a painful truth for me to face. Knowing he would never travel. Never have a family of his own. Never spend another holiday or vacation with us. The ring holds such a minuscule part of him, but it is made of particles that once made James. Particles that made his body, the one we hugged, the one that held his spirit for all of the years he was on Earth. So I wear it everywhere. I take it, I take him, to places he had never been.

In the Grand Canyon, we walked miles to the bottom to feel the frigid water of the Colorado River. I have taken him water skiing, a sport his adrenaline-seeking personality would have loved. We have hiked countless mountains to add to the few we did together while he was alive. He was there in spirit when our chaotic family of 11 went to Disney World, and again when we went to Mexico, crossing a border he had never crossed. When my son still snuggles up against me and I run my hand through his hair, I know James is there in my children and my nephews, despite having no children of his own. Every holiday, trip, mundane day—he is there.

In the eight years since he died, I have worn the ring everywhere. People still compliment it randomly, ask about it. Sometimes it’s the barista at Starbucks, or an acquaintance at the office, but they almost always ask the same question. “What kind of stone is that? It’s beautiful!”

I take some morbid pleasure in answering truthfully: “It’s made from my brother’s ashes.”

I like acknowledging the loss, acknowledging my brother’s life out loud. The uniqueness of it, the way it resembles a mood ring with a brooding stone, its purposely imperfect chunky band. They came together to make something one of a kind. Something like James was.

It’s just a ring, and yet it’s not. It’s a companion. It’s a piece of something, of someone. A love immortalized into a piece of jewelry.

Amanda Kernahan is a writer, host of the Grief Trails podcast, and a proud Adirondack 46er. She has been published in Newsweek, Slate, and several literary journals. She is working on a memoir about her long trek through grief, love, and nature as she hiked the 46 Adirondack High Peaks. Find her on Instagram @AmandaKernahanWrites. She lives in Rochester, NY, with her husband, two children, and their big, lovable German Shepherd.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Recommended reading on possessions:

“What Gets Packed For Death?” by Trevy Thomas, Mortal Beings

“Excavacation, Part Two: Digital Debris” by Dana Laquidara, Minimal Monday

“(Almost) Everything I Know About Decluttering” by Elaina, Hobby Hour

“Objects of Affection” by igotathingforchairs

“On loving things” by Dylan, Uncynical

“I keep all of the holiday cards my loved ones send. In the future, I'll give them back in a handmade memory book.” by Jillian Pretzel, Business Insider

“Marion Woman Turns Pet Loss Into Healing Keepsake Business” by Michaela Johnson, Fun 107

“A Field Guide to Michael Wolff’s Cardigans” by Victoria Wolff, Our Amagansett House