Ashes

by Jane Edberg copyright 2006

The cardboard box measures six inches by six inches by four inches. It weighs two and a half pounds. On top, a plastic sleeve conceals the documents pertaining to the contents and their disposal. Inside is a dark brown polypropylene box in a clear plastic bag sealed by a pinched metal clasp. Wired around the clasp is a round stainless steel tag the size of a quarter.  

CR-79 13550

It sat for a year at the far corner of my studio.

I dump them out. Pale gray. No, the grayest grays of every hue. He was once a beautiful painting when his image washed across the page. A bleeding of pinks, yellows, blues and greens. Then a terrible wind blew his faint pastels off into a pumicey drift of watercolor grains.

I move my hands through them but I cannot feel them. I cannot hear his elemental voice. Quiet as death itself. A decibel I wish I could perceive.

I press then lift my hands. My fingers print within his ash with exquisite detail. Maybe I can press my code into his. But I remain on the surface. Touching them is not touching him.

I want the fissures and pits of his charred bony remains to be a decipherable cuneiform. But they are merely vacant bits of shell.

Tears stream down my check into his ash. Small balls of pinkish grey form instantly as if his blood had come to the surface. I will not discard them. I will keep crying. Form everything back to the way it was. Press his things into them. He'll remember.

By morning they had hardened. Faded.

As I lift them, they crumble and my hopes of it all being a big mistake are turned to dust.