By Jim Carson
There are two boxes in my closet
One contains my father’s ashes—the other my memories of him
Like the rumpled suit of clothes that hangs above, the box of ashes gives no clue
to the life that gave it form and substance.
I will scatter his ashes on some mountain high
More memories for the other box already overflowing:
The old suit of clothes will in time give way to moths and dry rot to find it own resting place in the soil.
When all the loaves and fishes are gone and the last drop of wine runs dry,
There will still be plenty left for feasting in the box full of memories.
And that is all that matters now