At the end of the boardwalk I sit. A saline breeze stirs the drying leaves, whistling in Summer eaves. They kept her ashes. The water laps against the rotting wood, the same as every year. They took her and held her and now they keep her? She lies somewhere, ashen and light, finally away from them. This was her time, her final time to be reunited and then unfurled into an old world. I didn’t get to hug her, nor tell her that her truth was something worth leaving for. I didn’t get to tell her that I wanted her to stay. I’ve become a little girl again, selfish and tugging at soft maternal sleeves. From before, I remember some some song that said: “sadness is a long brown ribbon”. I know now, it is. It’s silken and smooth and I want to tie my throat with my mother’s brown ribbon. I want to gleam like saint in the new sun.