I tossed a spoonful of Auntie Calida into the blizzard. I’d warned her, “Leave me your cremains and I’ll fling your ashes into a snowstorm.” She despised cold weather.
“You won’t, Jamie,” she’d chuckled. “You’re such a goody two shoes.”
She had me there.
Living with funerary urns spooked me, and despite my wicked threats, three relatives said they’d entrust me anyway.
I tossed another spoonful out the window. Forced responsibility flying away.
“Who’s a goody-goody now, Auntie?”
I promised my mother, a vegan, if she foisted her cremains on me, she’d season my beef bourguignon. She said I wouldn’t dare.