A few months after he died we went and scattered Scott’s ashes at the beach. It was going to be Longnook but Longnook was closed so we did it at Coast Guard instead. It was blisteringly hot. Ron brought a Tupperware of marigolds and handed them out to each of us. The ashes themselves we scooped out of a plastic bag using recycled sake cups, the kind you pop out of the individual bottles. One by one we each went down to the water’s edge, waded until it was up to the knee. Marigolds bobbed in the water. I just want you to know that what you’re doing is very beautiful, a woman, approaching, said through her tears. Can I give you a blessing? My mother taught me how to bless the dead. Without further instruction she began to sing, her voice stretching into operatic Italian notes. The song was neither mournful nor poignant, but indecipherable, like sounds from an exotic bird. Would Scott have hated this, I wonder, or would he have laughed? When I returned to my beach chair I found a wild cormorant sitting there, unbothered for so long it had fallen asleep. Elsewhere the marigolds are floating.
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