by Grant Segall
A shadow glided across the urn. Still her mother’s daughter, Anna glanced at the sky.
“In the maple now,” Jim whispered before she could find it for herself. “A goshawk, maybe?”
“She taught you well.”
Momma used to lead the family through bramble and mud in search of birds, bats, and stars. Toward the end, Jim would wheel her outside for the narrow view between Cleveland Manor’s high-rises. “Land’s mostly private,” Momma often said, “but it’s everyone’s sky.”
Anna carried the urn toward the overlook. Jim guided her by the elbow. Erin and Lizzie herded the grandkids aside. Anna felt like a bride again, marching down the aisle, escorted this time by her husband, carrying an urn for a bouquet, untying a knot. A pebble scuttled from her pump. Jim steadied her, but she hadn’t stumbled. Did she look even shakier than she felt? “Thanks.” She eased ahead.
At the brink, the preacher retold the old story of how Momma, ahead of her time, had stopped the buses from idling alongside the school, where they’d spoiled the kids’ air and their views. Meanwhile, Erin and Lizzie were peeking solicitously at Anna. She tried to nod reassuringly. In their teens, the girls had chafed at all Jim’s help. As parents, though, they gave sightings, suggestions, and reassurances to all generations.
Now the hawk was circling over the ravine, and the preacher was saying how Momma had loved the view here. Naturally, a murky cloud was starting to obscure it. Momma would have loved a storm just then, enlivening the solemnities.
“Ready?” Jim whispered, touching Anna’s forearm.
“No, but . . .” She stepped to the brink and opened the lid. Per Momma’s instructions, the family came up one by one, pinched bits of ashes, and tossed them over the edge. The specks fluttered, caught the updraft, and vanished toward the sky. Anna scattered a final handful, shook out the residue, and watched it rise while the hawk sailed past the horizon.
Everyone turned and started walking back to the cars. Jim fished out a couple of tissues, wiped his cheek with one, and offered Anna another.
“I’m not crying,” she murmured.
“For later? In case you want to?”
Want to cry? Why? To share her grief? Flaunt it? Prove that a daughter’s ran deeper than a son-in-law’s? She shrugged and tucked the tissue into a sleeve.
At the limo, a hand startled her shoulder. Erin was flicking something away, maybe a leaf or a bug. “Thanks,” Anna managed. Today of all days, you’d think she’d cling harder to family still alive. Instead, she felt a new freedom and wanted more: the freedom to see the sky for herself. Of course, she’d never have the heart to break with Jim, let alone with the girls and the grandkids. But it would take a different sort of heart to let them keep fussing and loving without their sort of requital.