Spreading Jean's Ashes Part 1

Here is the story:
Hanna and I went out to Land's End this afternoon. Before we left, we watched the DVD of Jean pictures from the memorial. Then I read Hanna my poem. Then we drove out there, on roads Jean and David and I had driven on when we went out a few years ago. Frank and I had driven them a week ago, but the weather was too awful to go out to Land's End, so we skipped that part of the trip.
Hanna took pictures of me by the "first and last" house in England--the western-most house. Three years ago, David and Jean and I stood there and took pictures. Same spot. Beginning and ending, alpha and omega.
Then I went inside and bought a gift to remind us all of the moment. Three gifts, really: one for Watts, one for David, one for me.
Hanna waited, while I walked on. I told Jean I needed some help--I've never spread ashes, never chosen a place or tried to figure out what to think or say or do. I decided to leave the path to get away from people, though there weren't many once I'd left behind the tourist site anyway. But I didn't want to be on a path--I was pretty sure of that.
I picked up a few rocks and wandered, just paying attention. Suddenly I smelled lavender. Really really strong lavender. I looked around, and under my feet were some small purple flowers. I picked one, crushed it and smelled it. It smelled like lavender, like all those summers in France. I looked around, and knew I was in the right place. I could see the sea. I could see the moors. I could see a church in the distance, and the row of ancient rocks long ago stacked by human hands—— rocks that have survived the wind and sun and sea spray on the wild western edge of this end of land. I took pictures of the flowers, and then of the four directions I could see from the crest on which I stood.
Then I took out the ashes. I thought of the four directions, the four elements. I felt the ashes in my palm. Then I faced north, gave the gift of the earth to Jean and the gift of Jean to the earth, and scattered ashes. I faced east, gave the gift of the wind to Jean and the gift of Jean to the wind, and scattered ashes. I faced south, gave the gift of the sun to Jean and the gift of Jean to the sun and scattered ashes. Finally, I faced west--the land's end. The westernmost point of England, the Atlantic ocean. The wind was blowing from the west. I gave the gift of water to Jean and the gift of Jean to the water--to the ocean, to the sun, to the wind, to the earth. I said the words the minister said at her memorial: "Resurrect Jean"--as a celebration of the lives that Jean touched that go on; and I gave her the word I love: Namaste. The light in me acknowledges the light in you.
And then I was finished. I walked back to Hanna, ash on my hands. I told her about the flowers, showed her where they were growing along the path. I crushed one for her so she could smell the lavender. It did not smell like lavender, or like anything. I crushed another. No lavender. I walked farther, picked and crushed another. There was never lavender again. Only in that spot on the curve of the hill, on the the spot where the sea and earth and the sun and the wind met, however briefly. In that right place.
And then Hanna and I walked back to the pubs and the crowds and had some wine, and drank to life and the celebration of life, to lives well lived that go on even after they end.
Thank you, Watts, for giving me the gift of this moment. I feel very much as if I spent the day with Jean, which is better than I could have wished for—— and which was truly a gift.