Years earlier, Frank and I had made a promise.
Whichever of us died first would have their ashes scattered beneath the willow tree beside the lake where we had first met.
It took me another month before I could make myself go.
I chose a quiet morning when I knew no one else would likely be there.
I sat beneath the willow branches with the urn resting in my lap.
“I hate you for going first,” I told him.
Then, despite myself, I laughed.
“You always were selfish.”
I began telling him about everything he had missed: the kitchen faucet that had started leaking, our neighbor’s new dog, and the ridiculous fact that I still expected to hear his key turning in the front door at six every evening.
Talking to an urn felt absurd at first.
Then it stopped feeling absurd.
For a few minutes, I could almost imagine Frank beside me, interrupting whenever I became too sentimental.
Eventually, I lifted the lid.
Inside was a sealed bag containing his ashes.
I carefully raised it from the urn.
Something hard rattled against the ceramic bottom, slipped free, and fell onto the grass.
I looked down.
Frank’s wedding ring.
I knew that band better than I knew most things.
I recognized every scratch and worn edge.
Frank had worn it for forty years.
He used to joke that I was the only person allowed to remove it from his finger.
But Claire had specifically told me he had been cremated wearing it.
I picked it up.
Sunlight struck the inside of the band.
There were words engraved there.
My breath caught.
Frank’s ring had never had an engraving.
