They will be delivered inside a purple velveteen bag, such as a child might use for marbles.
Inside this will be a tall square tin.
The tin will be taped closed.
The tape must be cut open. There will be a strange moment, men fumbling for pocket knives.
At the top of the tin will be a medallion rattling in a pouch, which you may initially think contains whatever the furnace could not eat: teeth, say, or rings.
They are not uniform, but contain both powder and seeds.
When scattered in the tall grass on a hot day, the seeds fall. The powder plumes and drifts away.
They contain nothing recognizable.
They stick to your fingers.
You will remember the ashes even when nursing your infant daughter. The snow will remind you.
You will have no idea what to do with the bag.
Once stuck to the fingers they will not be licked clean. Around the lips they make a tribal mask, almost black.
You will come across the bag months later in a corner with some laundry and stop breathing.
On the other hand, you are not sure what happened to the tin.
When scattered in the tall grass on a hot day, they leave no trace.
Not so much as an ant hill.
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A revision of this one.
