Dear Austin,

You came home three pounds of white ash in a black box. It reminded me of the baggie of beach sand we kept from our trip to Florida when you were four. We buried each other beside the faltering castle, digging holes and romping in the cold surf. The white sand filled our pockets, settled in the tangled turf of our heads, the caves of our ears and became part of us even after the seaside shower. As Father Jim dumped you in the hole with rose petals and holy water then covered you with dirt, someone across the street was mowing a yard, something you should’ve been doing. If we’d all jumped into the hole with you the grass would keep growing, someone still mowing. The world carries on. After the hole-side ceremony your mom and sister and I spent three days at the Gaylord Texan surrounded by pursers from American Airlines, Edward Jones representatives from region 192, various cheerleaders and steel workers. We spent three days on one problem: 4 – 1.