They were right there, in the red and green canister.
Just like the one I wear. Just like the one my son wears. Just like the one on our family’s altar.
I am sending some of you, to your other beloved friend in California.
I have been missing you, Arrow. Always, but especially—again—recently.
Everyone has been asking me why.
Why did I quit? What changed? What happened?
How do I explain the loss of you? And of Nate, who was also lost? How none of us will be the same? How I think of the two of you every single day?
How I think of where we are all now, and how we will never be who we were before?
And…there she is. She, who lived.
Yes, and I am here, loving her too.
There isn’t a day I see her and don’t think of the three of you.
Honestly, there isn’t a day in my life when I am not carrying my love for you in my heart, wearing my love on my sleeve, so to speak.
A tattoo on my arm of my son and you. My Oblio and Arrow. How many times did make you watch The Point? How many times did I whistle “Me and My Arrow” to you in the halls at school?
But when I got the canister of ashes out to send to California, my husband asked me, “Are his ashes in there?”
So, we opened the canister and looked in.
“Can you be sure those are ashes?” he asked.
“Let’s taste and see,” I answered.
And in the mostly Holy of Communions, we wet our fingers.
Touched them to the opening of the canister.
Dabbed your ashes on the tip of our tongues.
We sat there, in deep reverence.
The prayer “Taste and see…” from liturgy sang through my head.
“Behold, the Holy Things are for the Holy…”
Arrow, while you have always lived on in my heart, strangely, now you really feel a true part of me.
Because I tasted your ashes.
Now, instead of carrying you on me in my canister of ashes, I carry you in me.
A most holy of communions.
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Editor: Renée Picard
Photo: Provided by Author
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