Two matching black boxes rest on the floor behind my desk in the law firm. They contain the ashes of Claude and Beverly, married forty years, dead within two weeks of each other. I place them so the sides of the boxes touch, in a sunny spot, where warmth can seep through the heavy cardboard layers to the grey-blue ashes and bits of bone. I like to think they notice the sun, are reminded of the world they left, and hold hands.

            The last time I saw Claude and Beverly was ten years ago. They signed wills in the same office to which they have returned. They put me in charge. I must empty and sell their large house, along with their almost-new Prius, a first edition of The Great Gatsby, furniture smelling of cigarettes and cats, and a collection of Turkish rugs. They had no children, and no one calls about their estates. I track down Claude’s cousin in Oregon, a man named Fred, who had forgotten he had a cousin named Claude but who knows where the family cemetery plot is located.

            Dust finer than what is in the black boxes has settled over what remains in their home. The light shines into the silence through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the back, the birdfeeders are empty. Just outside the front door stands a sculpture of a man, his head even with the roof, constructed with spaced metal strips. As I sit inside and begin the sorting, I can hear him squeak each time the wind blows.

            I try to piece together who Claude and Beverly were. I find books on twelve-step programs, an unpublished play by Claude titled Running in Place, and separate bedrooms. Nicotine gum in Beverly’s bathroom, the Serenity Prayer in gold script pinned to a post in Claude’s closet. Under a fridge magnet, on a page from a Shakespearean quote-a-day calendar, dated just before her death: “Gone to the store for coffee, New York Times. BRB, Bev.”

            The bags of trash grow, the thrift store boxes teeter in their stacks.

            When Fred on the coast is ready, I take them to the post office, Priority Mail from North Carolina. I’ve packed them together in one box. They are heavy in my arms as I back through the door, the handle pushing into my shoulder blades as I press against it. The post office smells like paper and glue and WD-40. The woman behind the counter has creases around her eyes and sighs as I slide her the box. I let go of the soft cardboard edge and watch as she places them on a conveyor belt. The box disappears behind a dark rubber curtain. I say, “Safe journey,” and leave through the lobby. The afternoon light flickers on the floor as the trees bend outside, casting shadows that move and tilt, move and tilt, dancing to a song I can’t quite hear.

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