Grandpa wouldn’t want to lay still in a grave.
He would want to fly with the wind and smoke (which is even better than sitting on a plane) and he would want to blend with the waves (which is even better than riding in a boat).
So that’s where he is now. I watched dad pour Grandpa’s gray ashes into the jumping splashes of a waterfall. Flowing green leaves, mother-like, gently caressed the playful, childish currents that twirled and skipped as the water, laughing, gurgled down layered crumbly wet shale.
And someday, six years from now, Grandpa’s ashes will slip down the St. Lawrence River, into the Atlantic Ocean and beyond.
