Ashes
more like sand 
in
     a plastic box 
inside
     a cardboard carton
with his name printed
on the label.

That’s all.

Ninety minutes of 
brake! 
and
accelerate!
on the four-lane,
again at the four-ways 
and traffic lights
on the snaking
detours.

I watch my estimated
arrival time
tick past the appointment 
time 
and inch
toward the 
4:00 closing time.  
I call,
shouting into the car 
speaker
that I’ll be late. 
She says 
she’ll wait.

It’s little
consolation. 
I could’ve waited ten 
more years. 

Tears
well up, but
I stare at traffic
and will them to
evaporate. No sense 
making the driving
more dangerous.

It’s 4:10. I wheel 
into the lot.
An office complex?
I dash through 
the door.
breathless 
and
apologetic.

I stick out my hand,
state my name, 
try to be polite, 
especially because I’ve
inconvenienced them
And I don’t
want to cry. Not in front
of strangers.

A suited man
asks if I need water.
I decline but
take a long breath
and notice lovely urns
on a shiny shelf,
a polished desk and
chair, bookcases.

It’s nice. 
For a crematory.

A woman points
to bags lined up
on a conference table.
One has his name-
it’s mine.

She removes a
packet with
THE FORMS:
     Receipt
     Transport of remains
     Release
It takes only six or seven
minutes, she told me
this morning.

I scribble and nod, so
as not to keep
her too long past 
her hourly
shift, then
grab the gauzy black tote
with the box inside
and bolt, glad to 
be shed of
this place.

Ashes- his ashes-
ride in the back 
seat of his
truck, as we
seek a new 
way Home. 

One
less congested, less
frantic. One less 
fraught with obstacles.

A way Home 
for 
us all.