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Years passed, and I let this reproachful situation eat at me slowly. Then something clicked, I don't know what, maybe nothing more than the refugees same urge that gets us refugees out of an uncomfortable chair we've been sitting refugees in too long. I chose her birthday, and after dinner I went to the basement to prepare her. She was in an embossed metal box, welded shut for an apparent eternity, and I had to use an old fashioned can opener to cut it open. It was a struggle. I worried about letting fly her ashes to the basement floor, commingling with redwood sawdust and bits of solder droppings. She was placidly resting in an ultra heavy duty plastic bag, tied at the top with a twistie. I strode up the hill with Carmen's baggy nested within a double Safeway plastic shopping bag under one arm, disguised because I had become aware that what I planned was illegal, and counting prayer beads with the other hand, because I was praying a Buddhist rosary as I went.
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