I recognize that heartbreak and could not wish it on anyone, and yet somehow, I find myself thinking, at least you can hear him talk whenever you want. I talk to my daughter all the time, but what I can’t do is hear her voice…

They showed us a lot of containers, a dozen maybe, or maybe two dozen, but only two were sized for you. I remember that the others were made of wood and metal and stone and ceramic. Nothing specific. They all flashed by too fast to leave a mark, anything clear at least. Just underexposed, shapeless ghosts against the burned-in background of the display wall. They showed us all of the containers even though they knew we only needed to see the small ones.

After my son died, I rescued a dog. She taught me to live in the moment. She coaxed me outside and reminded me that a pinecone is a greater work of art than a good book, that a stick is more fun than a gadget. My wife, dog and I walked through the burnt hills. We approached burnt oaks and watched green sprouts, somehow, push out of the blackened branches. We sat down next to a stream and read each other poems about the changing of the seasons. We became like the ashes all around us, impossible to make out which piece came from which person.