The doorbell rang, I heard my name, and when my husband came into the room, I was gobsmacked by big feelings. The air was suddenly full of sound I couldn’t hear. My mind whirled or went still; I couldn’t tell.
Dave suggested I sit down, and he sat next to me. It took a long time for me just to be able to touch the box. Sobs wracked my body. Dr. Daddy, who used to have an informed answer for every ache and bump and pain, died two years ago at a ripe old age. Then he went right off to medical school again, this time as a teaching cadaver, to give back a gift he’d received in his own youth.
I’ve missed him. He’s finally back. And I got the honor of receiving the box.
My stepmom, who's eloquent in practical matters, remarked on the $110 price stamped on the tag. “On my aunt's cremains that arrived in January 2000,” she texted, “the stamp said $9.55. It was also via certified priority mail!” (That’s a 1056% increase in 24 years, in case …