Dictated Moans

Remembering

Cassie stood in the doorway of the kitchen, fingers tightening around her phone. The smell of fresh coffee drifted toward her, mingling with the faint scent of pine from the air freshener Asher always used. His house was tidy- books arranged neatly on shelves, an old familiar quilt draped over the couch. Asher had shown her the guest room and she had already changed into comfortable clothes.

Asher emerged from the kitchen holding two mugs. He handed her one and gestured for her to sit. “I made it just the way you like it; two sugars, half milk,” he said, smiling faintly.

Cassie nodded, setting her phone aside. She took a sip from her mug, “Thank you. It smells and tastes so good.”

“I know. I still make mean coffee," he said, lowering himself into the armchair opposite her. “I’m really glad you’re here Cass.”

A quiet fell between them, the kind that only years of distance can stretch and soften. They hadn’t spoken much over the last few months-what with Cassie being busy with her PHD and Asher with his work.

“She really wanted to be cremated?” Cassie asked at last, her voice more uncertain than she meant it to be. Asher had revealed this information to her the previous day.

Asher nodded. “It is stated in her will. She was very clear about that. No traditional burial, no church service. Just a quiet cremation and some kind of gathering.”

Cassie exhaled, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. “That sounds like her,” she said. “Doing everything her way, even at the end.” Now that she was here, she couldn't really summon the resentment she had carried for her mother all those years. Besides, she was dead, so what was the use?

“She always hated the idea of people making a fuss,” Asher said, a hint of fondness in his voice. “Said she didn’t want anyone crying in uncomfortable black clothes on her behalf.”

Cassie chuckled softly. “I remember. She used to say, ‘If you’re going to cry for me, at least wear something you’d dance in.’”

They both smiled at the memory, and for a moment, the heaviness lifted.

“I’ve pushed the cremation to Friday. I hope that is okay by you,” Asher said, setting his mug down. “Simple, like she wanted. But I thought maybe we could still do a small memorial at her house afterward. Just family and close friends.”

Cassie nodded. “That sounds right. She’d like that. And I am okay with Friday. Where will you take her ashes?”

"She wanted them spread all over River Wak," Asher answered.

"Ooh, she loved going there," Cassie said, a tinge of dissapointment in her voice. Her mother had loved some things more than her children, and the river was one of them. It had been weird.

Asher hesitated before speaking again. “She sure did. Anyway, do you think we should invite Aunt Rose? I know they hadn’t spoken in years, but…” He had a way of changing subjects at suitable moments and Cassie loved him for it.

“She’s still family,” Cassie said. “And they were sisters, even if they fought like a cat and a dog. I think Mom would’ve wanted her there. Or at least wouldn’t have stopped her from coming.”

“I’ll give her a call,” Asher said. “What about the neighbors? Mrs. Marion and Mr. Klein?”

Cassie tilted her head. “Yeah, invite them. Mrs. Marion used to bring her fresh bread every Sunday. And Mr. Klein helped her fix the leaky roof one winter.”

Asher scribbled a few names in a notebook, his brows furrowed in thought. “It’s strange, you know. Planning a goodbye for someone who never let us get too close.”

“She did love you though, me, not so much,” Cassie said, her voice quiet.

"I don't think that was the case. I think you two were too much alike and she did not know how to deal with that. I am sorry," Asher answered while looking at his sister. He had sheltered her from their mother. That was until he went to college. When he came back, the relationship between daughter and mother had already scattered and Cassie had moved away to start her freshman year.

"It is not your fault. I know how much you protected me and I appreciate it," Cassie said with a small smile.

They sat in silence again, the kind that didn’t feel quite so heavy this time.

“I was thinking,” Cassie began, swirling the coffee in her mug, "I could go through her things after this. See what to keep and what to give away.”

Asher glanced up. “I have to finish up with a client, but I will be free in the evening,"

"Don't worry about me. I just don't want to sit here doing nothing," Cassie said. "You can help later."

"You sure you want to do that alone?”

"Yes, it is no big deal," Cass answered.

"Okay then. I will finish my meeting as quick as I can then come help you," Asher offered.

"Okay. I think I really need to go back to that house,” she said. “I spent so many years angry at her. Maybe if I see her life for what it really was—not what I imagined or resented—I can finally let go of some of it.”

Asher nodded. “I get it. Just don’t try to do it all in one day. The house has baggage.”

Cassie smiled faintly. “I’m prepared to find seventeen empty jam jars, a dozen expired soup cans, and half-finished crossword puzzles in every room.”

They both laughed, the sound genuine.

“I’ll help with anything you want,” Asher said. “Just say the word.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Maybe after I’ve gone through the basics, you can come by and help with the garage. That place is your domain anyway.”

“Oh no,” he said, mock horror on his face. “That garage is a portal to another dimension. I’m not going in there unless I’m wearing armor.”

Cassie chuckled again, this time with more ease. She hadn’t expected to laugh this soon after her mother’s death. But Asher had always had that way about him—disarming tension with humor and care.

“She really did keep everything,” Asher said, shaking his head. “Remember that box of cassette tapes?”

“She labeled them all by mood,” Cassie said, laughing. “‘Rainy days,’ ‘Angry cleaning,’ and my favorite-‘Heartbreak disco.’”

They fell into a rhythm of sharing memories-some funny, others painful. They talked about the time their mother dyed her hair purple on a whim, the countless cats she had taken in over the years, and the handwritten letters she left in books.

“She was complicated,” Cassie said, staring into her now-empty mug.

Asher nodded. “But she was our mother.”

Cassie stood and walked to the window, looking out at the garden that was already turning gold with the early touch of autumn. “Do you think we’ll ever really understand her?”

“I don’t know,” Asher said, joining her. “But I think trying counts.”

Cassie leaned her head against the cool glass. “I used to think she didn’t care. That she didn’t want me around and wished that I weren't born.”

"Contrary to what you think, when you left, we did not talk that much. College changed me, according to her. She had her own ghosts for sure, but I don't think she really hated us. And maybe… maybe she kept us at arm’s length because she didn’t want to pass on her ghosts.”

Cassie turned to him. “Well, we still got some of them.”

“Yeah,” he said with a small laugh. “But we’re here. We’re talking. That counts too.”

Cassie reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Ash. For doing all this. For not being mad that I wasn’t there more.”

He looked down at their hands, then back at her. “I was never mad. Just missed you.”

A lump formed in her throat. “I missed you too.”

He gave her hand another squeeze. “Let’s get through Friday. Then we’ll figure out the rest.”

Cassie nodded. “One step at a time.”

The siblings stood there in silence, watching the wind ripple through the garden. It wasn’t peace, not yet. But it was a start.