I remember you today on the day that you died.
The wind by the river is much colder today.
Over frozen snow from the house to the rocks by the river,
I carried you in my hands in a box.
As I carried you today with no gloves, they came with me.
Some of them knew you and others did not.
Each was a caregiver either current or past.
Some were remembering someone who had died.
They warmly encircled me as I remember you today.
Some were still holding the parent they have.
Over the slippery rocks to the river’s edge, I carried you
as the sun set today on the same day that you died.
It is and is not you, inside the bag inside the box inside the box
which I hold in my hands with no gloves.
My cold hands hold you as I did on the day that you died.
Above, a sunset with lapping river below.
Scooped, briefly held, I then released and dispersed you.
One said at that moment birds flew over.
My ashy hands let you go a second time at low tide.
One said at that moment a deer came into view.
On the day that you died, they held me as I released you
A cold orange sunset by the river, I held you.