The sky is the deepest blue, with the occasional wisp of white cloud drifting lazily across it. Cooling winds barely stave off the heat from the sun.

A bead of sweat slides down my neck.

The trees rustle, tall grasses whisper with the wind, and the marsh waters trickle. Ahead of me, the ocean is a thick, dark band of blue, inching closer with every step, bringing with it a salt-cool breeze and the distant crash of waves.

But I barely notice. I move down the boardwalk numbly.

Dragonflies zip past, carrying with them some invisible tune that joins the cacophony of insects buzzing and chirping. It is deafening and silent all at once.

The subtle tang of sulfur drifts away as the horizon darkens into ocean. Alongside the rickety boardwalk, sandbanks are alive with tiny dramas of flora and fauna, going about their days unaware.

I am jealous of their ignorance.

Little crabs scuttle from their sandy hollows, lifting their bodies on spindly legs before sidling away, leaving damp imprints where they once rested. Swallows swoop for mosquitos, while a snow-white egret stalks minnows with a patient precision.

Life hums all around me — beginning and ending, thriving and fading. And yet, I feel removed from it all. Because I am carrying someone with me. Someone I loved.

The trees and grasses, the dragonflies and mosquitos, the crabs and minnows, the swallows and egrets — all are part of this infinite cycle of life. But my focus is only on the weight in my hand.

Some might say that, in the vastness of life’s cycle — from the microscopic to the cosmic — one single life is so small, even obsolete. But what if that life was an important one to you? Someone you loved.

The end of the boardwalk meets the sand.

Waves crash onto the shore. The breeze has sharpened. The sun has now passed its peak. The skies shift from the deepest of blues into fire — orange and yellow, streaked with red and violet. It is hard to stay numb in the face of such a dramatic scene.

Since the dawn of time, humanity has created beautiful ceremonies and rituals, to say goodbye, ceremonies to give meaning to loss.

Is this mine for her?

95 years — a long time by any human measure. Yet I cannot seem to open my hand, to let go. 95 years were not enough. For me, it was only 17.

From the moment life begins, it carries death inside it — dying is simply the condition of living. What changes is how long that life lasts, and how deeply its ending cuts us.

A single person’s death may be just one small chapter in the infinite book of existence. But in our own lives, it can close entire volumes. Hers closed one in mine.

The wind strengthens. The sand stings my ankles as I step closer to the ocean. 

It is time.

I open my hand. My grandmother’s ashes, caught by the breeze, drift towards the setting sun, with the waves crashing below. And just like that, her chapter ends.

When I turn back inland, the marsh greets me again—trees and grasses, dragonflies and mosquitos, crabs and minnows, swallows and egrets, all alive. The cacophony. The smells. 

And there, too, is my family, each carrying a piece of grandma, each saying goodbye to a sister, a mother, a grandmother, a friend.