Ash and Bone

raking fingers
through ash and bone
my parents       

Dusting one day, I picked up the small glass vase that held the last of my parents’ remains. The vase, from Egypt, hand-blown, painted sea blue with gold accents, came from my spiritual teacher. I had given it to my mother. It sat for many years on the small kitchen shelf near the sink, along with other small gifts given over the years.

Unexpectedly in their presence, I dropped the vase. The lid broke off. Suddenly I was grieving again as ash and tiny bone shards fell into the rug. I raked my fingers through them, collected the bits and pieces of my beloveds, and held them in the palm of my hand. These two—a mother and a father who figured so large in my world. Now all that’s left is a hand full of ash and bone, memory, and a faint hovering of essence. Strangely, the vase later disappeared.

raking fingers
through ash and bone
my parents