My father died two weeks ago, his partner Regina and I by his side. Ever since, I've been driving back and forth to San Francisco to their space at Project Artaud to be close to her, near Albert's energy and to share our grief. Yesterday, Joan and Emily and I drove up to San Francisco to spend the night and day with Regina. Justin's off in Arizona for the weekend with his Uncle Darren.
      In the morning, I call the Neptune Society to see if Albert has been cremated yet. The woman on the phone says we can pick up his ashes between 8:00 and noon. After a quick breakfast, we pile into our red van and head across town. On the way over, we make two stops-one at Foods Co where I buy Regina a giant box of seven-day candles to keep light burning on the altars she's so lovingly tending in Albert's memory. Her altars are full of pictures of him, of them together, of cards, flowers, candles, and chocolates-a weakness he and I shared. The second stop is Ace Hardware where Joan runs in to buy the silicone adhesive we need to seal the top of Albert's urn.
      On our way across town, I tell Emily that Albert's body was burned and that we're going to pick up his ashes, and that Grandma Regina is going to keep them in a special urn.
      "His spirit is here!" she chirps from her carseat.
      "Where, Emily?" I ask.
      "Right here in the car!" she pipes up, her voice high and sure. "He's a line of white light!"
      Regina smiles in the front seat, comforted by her granddaughter's words. Emily has been talking to Albert's spirit ever since he died.
      Crossing Divisadero, Emily recites in a sing-song voice, "Ring a round the rosie, pocket full of posie, ashes, ashes we all fall down." She repeats it over and over. None of us respond.

      As we get closer to the Neptune Society, we grow more somber. When we arrive, a woman ushers us into a small room with a table and big padded chairs. A box of tissues sits predominant on a bare table. There are big expensive urns displayed on one wall with prices attached. They are clearly marked up to three of more times their value. Fortunately, we have our own urn, made lovingly by a potter friend, waiting for us back at Project Artaud.
      The woman returns with a blue velvet sack with a hard rectangular plastic case inside. It sits in front of us, a heavy awkward bundle. Regina starts weeping. This is all that is left of the man she loved for seventeen years. Joan holds Regina and I hold Emily on my lap, the blue bag between us all. The woman and I exchange some paperwork, Joan lifts the ashes and we head outside to a waiting bench, trying to absorb the finality of the package in our arms.

      Ten minutes later, Regina says she is ready to leave. I ask if she still wants to head to Golden Gate Park, as we had planned. She says yes, but that she doesn't want to leave Albert in the car. Joan says she'll carry his ashes in the backpack we have brought for Emily's sweatshirt and a snack.
      When we reach the park, I take Emily's hand, Joan carries Albert's ashes on her back, and Regina gathers rose petals in the Rose Garden. Emily skips ahead, picks up fallen petals, then runs back to Regina. "Grandma, here's a red one! Here's a yellow one! Look Grandma, here's a pink one!" She stuffs them all in Grandma's waiting pocket. They will dry them later, when we get home.
      Mingling with crowds of bicyclists and roller bladers, we meander over to Stowe Lake. The last time I was here, five years ago, Justin was a toddler and Albert, Regina and I rented a paddleboat and paddled around the lake. Spontaneously, we decide to do it again. Joan and I sit up front and pedal the big turquoise boat with our feet. Emily snuggles with Regina in the back and Albert's backpack sits perched between us all. I lean against the canvas and feel the distinctive dense weight of the box, solid behind my back. It feels right to do this. This is just the kind of outing Albert loved.
      The water is emerald green with algae and Emily is delighted with the ducks and sea gulls, the turtles sunning themselves on logs. Joan and I find a slow, steady rhythm with our legs as we slowly cruise around the lake. We pass the fake waterfall, help a boat that got stuck, pass under a 100-year-old bridge and enjoy the sun warming our skin and our spirits. It is a beautiful day and a deep feeling of peace fills me. Albert is with us. I feel his gentle, whimsical presence enjoying one last slow ride through the water before we bring him home.

      Back at Regina's, I put Emily down for a nap. Coming downstairs, I find Joan asleep on the couch and Regina lying in Albert's bed, the blue velvet bag cuddled beside her. She looks up when I come into the room, then reaches out to stroke the bag. "It's heavy," she says. "It feels good to bring him home."
      While Emily sleeps, we carry the ashes to a table and transfer them from the plastic box to the urn. The cremains are gray with bits of white, gritty and dense and wholly unlike any other substance I have ever seen or felt before. We take turns running our fingers through the rough particles. The phrase, "dust to dust" becomes a graphic reality.
      Using a manila folder and duct tape, Joan fashions a funnel and I silently spoon the ashes into the urn, saving some in a zip-lock bag for my brother and I to keep. Before we seal the lid with silicone, we say an Om in Albert's honor. Then we sit on the couch, the urn before us, touching each other and sharing stories of Albert.
      When Emily awakens, she makes her way downstairs for a wake-up snuggle. My friend Susan drops by to pick up a jacket she left in Santa Cruz. Her daughter and Emily turn somersaults on the floor. Joan and Regina clean up the dead flowers on the altar and light new candles. We warm up leftover soup for dinner and Emily dances happily before us. Despite our losses, life goes on.