When Mom threw Daddy's ashes out off the edge of Benbulben the wind blew them all back in our faces and we were sneezing him out for days. Every time I blew my nose I could see tracks of dark dad-matter mixed in with all the snot on the tissue. Even in death he was with us, mixed with mucus.

On a school trip to Denmark, years ago, I was taken by my temporary foster family to a crematorium. The logical explanation for the trip escapes me now, but it seemed to make sense at the time - something to do with the architectural wonders that the father of the family had designed, of which the crematorium was a prime example. Here I was shown the human ashes at the end of the process, compacted into hard round little balls. I had assumed this morning when we went to collect Dad that that's how he would be; squished into a rock hard little ball. At least that way he would have bounced down to the bottom instead of billowing up and over and into us like he did. But that's the service industry in Ireland for you; your own father doesn't even come compacted. I suppose we were lucky not to be taking him home in a plastic bag. Mum was supposed to come along to collect the ashes - we were only going to make sure she was ok - but in the end she couldn't face it and so Ashling and I went alone, and Dad came home in the glove compartment.

That's not Micheal, Mum kept saying, her hand over her eyes, that's not Micheal. I can't imagine how awful it was for her, holding what was left of her husband in what was essentially a fancy doggy bag. But I couldn't really tune into it. You know? That grief wavelength she was on, wherever it was; I wasn't there. It wasn't digging into me. Not like I was happy he was dead or anything nuts like that. I just wasn't anything. Ashling put her arm around Mum and led her over to sit on the new couch, the green one, and all I was thinking was what a fucking awful colour for a piece of furniture. Then I felt guilty so I focused back on ma again. Ashling was holding her but I could tell from her face that it wasn't really digging into her either.

For some unknown reason, by some bizarre twist of bereaved spouse logic, ma decided that the ashes needed to go on the top shelf in the fridge until it was time for their redistribution. I was going so say something, because I know she was stressed but that was a bit daft, but then I caught Ashling's eye and decided not to.

And so, just a few long hours later, we're standing on the head of Benbulben with all of County Sligo and the great Atlantic below us glinting in the sun, and we're coated in a fine layer of the man himself. Mum with her face all scrunched up, coat pulled close around her in the wind, her voice beginning to rise in a long whine, just crying out across the land, and Ashling having a coughing and spitting fit off to the side, trying to get the taste of him out of her mouth. And I'm just standing there, with Dad coating my lips and face, wishing for the love of God they'd compacted him into a ball so we could have just bounced him down. And it digs into me a bit; not for him, but for me, that I'd think that way, and that's not right - I should be able to feel these things, I should be able to tune in, you know? It's not right, and here I am with the old fucker all over me and up my nose and its just a bit fucking much you know? Mum's voice is just whining long and high like she's never going to stop and I wonder if she ever will, or if the rest of her life will be one long long cry and that digs into me too because he should be there for her, she needed him not the other way around; and I kind of almost wish he was here; not even just for her but for this, this ridiculous fuckin situation because he wasn't funny but at least he always seemed to know what to say when noone else did; and it hits me that whatever way we were, however crap it was its worse now, because me and mum and ashling, we're not tied together the same way we were; I don't know how I'm tied to my sister now, or how mum is tied to either of us or even how she's tied to the world; and it just fucks me cos this isn't the way things are supposed to be, it cuts right into me, overturning earth and flesh and wounds and the blood flows out and I start to choke all over it; it comes up inside me, suddenly a whole world of sorrow and pain is there like in my throat so that I can't breathe but I can't let it out; it strains at me, wanting me to open and let it all out into the world open my mouth and my eyes and my heart for everything in them to come rushing out like water but I won't, I grab it and hold it and it fills me so much, but I don't understand what it is because I don't know what sorrow I could feel for him or his passing, I don't have a name or a reason on it but its there like a huge wave falling over me and name or no it's going to drown me down, and I can't stay standing there's so much of it and I open my mouth but nothing comes out