Remains

THIS IS what you think your mother’s remains will look like. The ash will be black, like all that soot in the fireplace. It will be heavy, like wet sand. There will not be too much of it. It will fit in a small urn with intricate designs on the border, designs that are both strange and somber, like she was. Most importantly, the ash will be shut inside the urn. That way you won’t have to look at it. Not until you remove the cover, and even then, you might discover that what the urn contains isn’t ash at all. It might be her soul. Her love. Her whatever. You’ll open the urn and release her like a genie, as in a children’s movie. She’ll laugh her hysterical, nicotine-choked laugh and grant you three wishes, but you won’t need them: the sight of her was all you wanted.

Say there’s no mother-genie inside the urn. Say it is ash, black and heavy like sand. You will carry the urn to the banks