Two years ago today, I picked up a box from the post office that contained your ashes.
The box spoke of nothing except loss…
Except of that reduction and the futility of life.
It’s weight, its height and depth and width…
It said nothing of you dark brown hair
Or your deep resemblance to me
Or of your laugh.
And as I sat it down in the car seat beside me
It looked tiny
It was clean and neat… not like you at all.
And in it, clearly was no humor.
In it are no answers… only ashes.
In it is no justice… when a dad carries the ashes of his son.
Your life was something.
It was music and charm
And reading to your from a book every night
It was food and sunlight
And sitting in the living room in the evenings
It was shoveling snow and school programs
And report cards and mornings.
It was chores and arguments
Amusement parks and family vacations
Once the life is gone… there is a box of ashes.
And then the rest of my life.