Friday, December 12, 2014

Walking Over to Retrieve His Urn and Walking Slowly Back

I am so glad you were specific about the contents, what to do with them. Who knows otherwise

what I might have done? I could have left you on the mantel, as some do, but we

don't have a mantel. I could have dribbled a bit of you into each dibbled hole this November as I--

as we--planted bulbs. (Aren't you glad you waited a month?) I could have kept some

in my pocket to sprinkle upon hand-patters who reassure me you are in a better place,

then smiled and said Well, now he is. I could have mixed you into the bone-grey paint 

and finished the upstairs hall with an enigmatic texture. I could have sifted you

into baked goods and trotted the rounds with baskets laden--Eat & remember--or parsed you

sparingly to the goldfish, Molly & Ivan, as an extra treat, if we had goldfish. If I were

a sculptor, surely I could come up with something: a hand-cast concrete lantern for the garden?

Or, if money were no object, I could ship you off to one of those companies that crush

you into a precious stone. I've always hated ostentatious jewelry.

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