Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Sunlight shines like glitter on choppy water while gulls sound calls to their mates. Tabitha stands with little Andrew at the railing. He points to the urn she carries in her left hand.
“Is Daddy in there?”
“They all are, Baby.”
He gives her a pensive look and begins to cry. How does a mother explain the origin of dust from Ground Zero?
As the motor idles, Tabitha lifts the lid from the urn and places it on the deck.
“May I help Mommy?”
“Of course, Love.”
Together, they pour the contents into the bay and say a silent prayer.
100 words/Genre: Hell, I don’t know
Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. Please be sure to go to her page and read the stories from other writers. We are a rather eclectic group. I welcome kudos and criticism. Bring it on!