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Show A PROPER INTRODUCTION-38 The creek is already polluted, we reason, and moving water will purify itself perhaps, or the ashes will contribute to a new flower or a tree....we hurry to the stream as the sun diffuses out red and violet like a child's watercolor gone out of control. The ashes won't come out of the urn. They are stuck in the long, slender neck and we can hear rattling noises from inside. We take turns shaking it, pounding the bottom, hitting it against a rock. Only a tiny cloud of white dust comes out, and the rattles sound very large. Finally Dad leaves me alone with the urn, and I cradle it on my lap until Dad finally returns with a hacksaw. As the brass falls apart under the saw, large chunks spill out onto the dried leaves and we hasily kick them into the water. A few large pieces in the neck have to be poked out with a stick. A great deal of white dust showers out like snow and we can't seem to get it all into the water. There is a plastic bag inside, too, which has us at a loss until Dad wads it up and shoves it, shamefacedly, under a rock. We leave silently, quickly, grateful for the darkness. Back at the house, I pick a branchful of the gold oak leaves from the big oak tree on the front lawn, and arrange them in the bottom half of the urn, and place it over the burned spots on the coffee table. |