What’s Left?

Ashes, they call them.
Gritty like beach sand
or fine like powder
made from clay.
I’ve seen both kinds,
wrapped in a plastic
bag with a tightly
twisted top, a metal
tag with a number
threaded onto the
zip tie.

Is it the measure
of the man that
determines his final
form?

Kind of like how
the finest grounds
make the most
delicious cup of
coffee?

We shared a
pot every morning,
sipping, reading, laughing,
praying.

Today, I opened the
bag: gray, powdery-fine
particles, packed
densely, just like him.
No, not him.
But truly him.

I gently tapped
a tiny spoonful
into the miniature
funnel, so precariously
balanced above
the opal. My birthstone.
Threaded onto a
gleaming silver chain,
the finest part of him
will be close to
my heart.

It will have to
be enough.