It took me another month before I could make myself go.

I chose a quiet morning when I knew no one else would likely be there.

I sat beneath the willow branches with the urn resting in my lap.

“I hate you for going first,” I told him.

Then, despite myself, I laughed.

“You always were selfish.”

I began telling him about everything he had missed: the kitchen faucet that had started leaking, our neighbor’s new dog, and the ridiculous fact that I still expected to hear his key turning in the front door at six every evening.

Talking to an urn felt absurd at first.

Then it stopped feeling absurd.

For a few minutes, I could almost imagine Frank beside me, interrupting whenever I became too sentimental.

Eventually, I lifted the lid.

Inside was a sealed bag containing his ashes.

I carefully raised it from the urn.

Something hard rattled against the ceramic bottom, slipped free, and fell onto the grass.