The Things I Carry
My dad told me before he died he wanted his ashes scattered in the ocean. I took them to Reno instead. He had a wicked sense of humor, so I’d like to think he’d forgive my transgression. Or at least understand how hard it is to let go of someone you love, even if it’s just the cinders of their remains. I have moved my dad’s ashes — in a biodegradable urn with a pastel sailboat motif on top — from N.C. to Georgia to Nevada to now Utah. Pretty much as far from water as you can get without going to a cornfield in Nebraska. A cardboard box with the urn resides on top of my closet, and sometimes I still imagine him in the room when I’m feeling really blue.
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