Temporary Lodgings

Incineration; it is his living wish. The urn will be a plain oblong box, He will be boxed. The wooden package will be sent as only a temporary accommodation, not a place of rest or peace, but something to be kept until poured. This pouring will be an on-going one taken up by a river for carrying. The current will winnow and permeate sift and sieve, fish will be his filtrate, the river rocks a million headstones that will grind his dust finer until the water itself eats it. Then the empty box will be filled with saffron, sandalwood flakes, and dried mothwings, be taken back, back into the flames to be a thin ascending signal of smoke so insubstantial that it will be no more than a dissolving question in an un-answering sky. A wispy waymark just light enough to ride upon the ever breathing breath of the wind, and always moving onward unseen.