Final Ashes

A package arrived.

“It’s heavy,” my wife exclaimed.

“14 pounds,” I said. It was from Boise, which I hadn’t considered since I’d fired Boise-based Sid long ago.

“A bomb?” my wife asked.

“I wouldn’t think so.” Inside was a decorative vase with a heavily taped lid. After some struggles, the lid burst free. Chalky ash spilled onto our floor.

“There’s a note,” my wife said, brushing ash from her shoes.

I read the note aloud. “Ashes for an ashhole. In life, you were my problem. In death, I’m yours.

“It’s Sid,” I said.