A few weeks after you died, I was invited to go to the top of the mountain where I had never been. I concurred.
The night before we were to drive, however, I started to panic. My heart was racing, anxiety inside me churned, and I paced in my pajamas, thinking, ” I can’t go. You are not with me. I haven’t been any new place without you.”
I felt nervous and considered of cancelling the trip when I spotted the black box that held your ashes.
“Ah, I just take you with me.”
I poured some of your ashes into a small pill container, deposited it in my purse and went to bed. I felt calm. Everything was going to be okay.
Next morning, as we were driving, I confessed to everybody that I had your ashes with me.
“I hope you are okay with it and don’t think I’m too weird.”
They all smiled, and I was relieved.
It was windy once we arrived at the top. It might have been because of high altitude and thin air, but I felt serene and closer to where you were. I took the container out, opened the lid and tilted it. Particles dispersed. I cried, of course. I cried a lot then.
I let a small part of you go that day.
When I drive to town now and see the top of the mountain on clear days, I know you are watching over me, making sure the road ahead is safe.