Free Good Grief by Lolly Winston

needed to realize that and focus more on the future.
    Now, here I am in the future with a handful of yellow roses.
    At the beach, angry waves pound the sand. I take off my sneakers and socks and roll up my pants, but I can’t make it out to where the water is even a little bit deep. A thorn on one of the roses pricks my finger.
    Marion stands facing the sea with her hands on her hips, as if commanding it to settle down. The wind blows her white hair straight back, and I see her pink scalp underneath. Her eyes tear from the cold.
    The weather was almost this blustery on the day of Ethan’s memorial service, even though it was summer. Marion, Dad, Jill, Ruth, and our friends Sonia and Alfie and I gathered on the shore to sprinkle the ashes. The wind whipped everyone’s hair into their faces, and sand stung our eyes, and the ocean churned impatiently, tugging at our ankles as if to say
You, too; I want you, too.
Technically we were supposed to get a permit to disperse the ashes, but no one had done this. Marion looked around furtively and struggled to open the stubborn lid on the urn. She finally pried it off and tossed out the ashes, which tumbled straight down into the foam around everyone’s feet. She glared disdainfully at the urn. Clearly, this wasn’t what she’d had in mind. She must have imagined a crisp but windless day, the sky a big blue bowl overhead, the ocean twinkling, the ashes flying in a graceful arc toward Hawaii.
    Now, I fling the roses as hard as I can. They’re airborne for a second, spread out like a fan. Then they bob and rock in the white foam just a few feet away. The waves push them to shore, drag them back, push them in again.
    A German shepherd splashes through the surf, barking at the flowers. “Shoo!” I yell at the dog, who clutches one rose between his teeth. “Scram!” There’s no owner in sight, no one else on the beach. The salt water stings my calves. My feet are numb.
    I’m startled when Marion comes up from behind me, takes my hand, and squeezes it. I squeeze back. While her fingers are cold and dry, her palm is warm and cushiony. She says we should have remembered our gloves. Then her hand is gone. We turn away from the ocean, the roses, and the barking dog and climb up the hill toward the parking lot. The sand is so deep that it’s like one of those dreams where you’re trying to run but you can’t.
    Marion and I are the only ones at a restaurant that overlooks the beach. We order crab and a bottle of wine for lunch. I work at the claws and dredge a slice of sourdough bread in melted butter and drink some of the Chardonnay. Marion finishes her wine and pours another glass but doesn’t touch the crab.
    “Too much work,” she says. “Too much.” She looks at my pajama top suspiciously but doesn’t seem to have the energy to comment.
    “Maybe you’d like something else?” I ask her. The waiters, who outnumber us, stand by the coffee machines and glance over at our table.
    “No, thanks.” Marion smiles and tucks her napkin beside her plate. “Actually, know what I’d like?”
    I shake my head.
    “A cigarette.”
    “A
cigarette
?” I can’t imagine Marion smoking. “We could get you some.”
    “Oh, my gosh, no.” She waves her small hand over her plate.
    Across the water I think I see the ghostly sail of a boat on the horizon. Or maybe it’s just a whitecap or a cloud. Soon it’s gone, swallowed up by the ocean.
    I know, I
know
as I drive up 280 to work the next morning, that I should not be wearing my bathrobe. But I can’t stay home from work another day, and I simply couldn’t get dressed this morning. All of my clothes were either too small or mismatched or dirty. But mostly they were too small—the skirts unforgiving of my new apple pie middle. I tore blouses and dresses off hangers and laid them across the bed, trying to put together an ensemble, but nothing worked. I couldn’t get dressed and I couldn’t
not
go to work, so I climbed in the car