by Leah Mueller
Afraid to weep, my son carries
his father’s ashes in a cardboard box.
As water roils in the distance,
he steps inside a crater filled with loose gravel,
twists his ankle, crumples to the ground.
We stand above, hands outstretched
while he tosses in agony on the asphalt.
On the shore, beachcombers
climb dead tree branches,
pick their way through slippery rocks.
My son’s right knee ripped and swollen,
a jagged hole in his expensive pant leg.
I remember the other times he fell,
how I failed to offer comfort,
how he refused to cry
unless he had an injury.
How terrified he was of pain.
How he worked to clutch his intestines
tight, like a box, to keep it all inside.
The only way he mourns
is through his body:
he writhes and moans,
grief rising into the air like ashes.
“I’ll be okay,” he says,
lifting the box high, continuing
towards the water. A minute later,
I hold my jacket open to block the wind.
My daughter steps inside the folds,
lights a clump of sage with trembling hands.
Maybe we’ll all meet somewhere,
but I’m inclined to doubt it.
I’ve been disappointed before,
gone to that ledge and found it empty.
In the distance, children leap across rocks,
their voices rising with the waves.
We each take a fistful of ashes,
toss them into the low tide.
Tiny crabs search our soles for food.
I clutch the dust of a man I quit
holding years ago, but finally release,
and return to my car without stumbling.
He left with no forwarding address,
dead finger pointing on the envelope,
mail piled on the floor of his
tiny, subsidized apartment.
Someone else already sleeps
in the bedroom where he died;
she’s happy for the refuge.
All we know is shelter, then
someone who remains standing
long enough to let us go.