sat looking at the white plain box on the coffee table
and wondered what we should do.
Someone mentioned that there was a nearby footbridge
that she had loved
and that she had captured in many photos.
We decided that it would be fitting
to let her ashes fall into the stream that ran beneath the bridge.
Our troupe filed almost wordlessly on the path through the woods
not quite sure where the bridge could be found.
None of us had ever gone there with her.
Finally we came upon a pretty arcing wooden bridge,
the stream flowing quietly below.
We said a few awkward words,
standing in a light misting rain
and then watched as her ashes
were carried away by the stream.
I’m not entirely sure what it means
that the only person who cried
was my brother’s wife.
Days later as I worked to empty her house for the sale
I came across a stack of pictures in a drawer
and among them was a photo of the bridge she loved
but after looking closely at the picture a while
I came to realize
that it was not the bridge where we had stood.