MY FATHER’S ASHES 

My father didn’t want his ashes scattered, 
but my brother suddenly felt superstitious. 
He claimed them from the funeral parlor 
in a small cardboard box with a white 
label bearing dad’s name. He kept them 
on a basement shelf, until I, the younger 
who’d moved away, could drive back 
to do a ceremony on a windy winter 
day. We walked out on the jetty 
into the harbor where dad docked 
his boat. We’d have used the dock, 
but someone said the EPA required 
permits. We didn’t calculate 
the tide, dead low so we couldn’t 
throw dad in. Chancing a fall, we 
climbed down icy granite chunks, 
treading the mussel beds to a shallow 
tidal puddle. “Here,” my brother 
declared, opening the box to tip 
it toward the wind. Dust on our 
pants and shoes. A pile of ashes 
on the blue-black shell bed, my 
brother pushing them toward 
the water with his wet shoe. 
“You’re kicking dad,” I told him. 
Later, he said he’d keep the box. 
I took a little ash, left in its corner, 
buried it in my backyard where, 
to my surprise, I talk to it. 

LIVER CANCER 

When I was thirty-three they 
told me, “We think it’s liver cancer.” 
I drove an hour to the hospital 
thinking I’d never see my 
little kids grow, or go to all 
the places that I’d like to see. 
 
The dizziness I felt was 
like looking from unguarded 
heights. I could barely hear 
the specialist explain, 
“The tests are inconclusive. 
We’ll have to do them all again.” 
 
I took that as an omen, 
declined any further probing 
and drove home. Either they 
were wrong or I’d die anyway. 
They called me nearly every 
week, “Come in for treatments.” 
 
Years later, at a dinner I met 
the doctor who said, “I thought 
you died.” “I did,” I said, “I’m 
resurrected. I’m immortal now 
without your diagnosis.” I heard 
he only lived to sixty. 

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© Copyright, David B. Axelrod.
 All Rights Reserved by Author.