He kept her in a wooden box up above the fireplace. She wanted to be let go. Wanted to be tossed out into Lake Michigan at sundown on Olive Beach, where they used to go to after dinner on cool autumn nights. But he couldn’t let go.

Often, he would open the pine box and run his fingers through the ashes. Folding dust into his hand and then releasing it back into the box. Saying a prayer each time he did this. Asking God, why did you take her from me?

They all leave, he thought. We leave each other, sifting ashes through his wrinkled fingers. We die or run away. Divorce or stay together, drifting farther and farther apart, he whispered.

But we get used to having the other, our partner, around. And when they leave, we long for them. We can not let go. I can’t let go, he said.

The old man took the box of ashes down from the mantle and placed it on the kitchen table. He poured a cup of coffee. Buttered a piece of toast and spent the day staring at the box; talking to it, speaking to her.

You remember our  walks to Olive Beach? he asked the box. We walked up the trail from North Avenue, getting coffee on the way. Every night was a first date, he laughed. And now you want to say goodbye. I do not want to say goodbye. But it’s time. It is time.

The widower carried her to Olive Beach at sundown. Said so long and tossed her into the water. Swim, honey. Swim, he said. I’ll see you soon.