When work is just about finished, I receive a call from the lobby downstairs. A package has arrived. Seeing it as an opportunity to escape from the tension hovering over the office space, I hurry downstairs and retrieve the box. I take it back upstairs, grab a pair of scissors and get to work. I slide the blade down and to the sides to tear the tape. Once the excess tape is removed, I open the box.
Whatever joy has been left in me dies. I stare at the dark plastic urn nestled in the box's confines. I forgot all about my mother's remains. I was supposed to get a call to pick them up, not have them mailed to me. The hospital is directly across from us. Why didn’t they ring me instead of shipping them over?
My bottom lip trembles. I pull the urn out, hugging it to my chest. I bite myself,
