The funeral director lifts sealed ashes into flecks of sunlight, knows heâ€™s just performed a small miracle, turned our mother into a well-made box my sister and I can drive home in the front seat of her convertible bug. In life, she was never that easy. He asks if weâ€™re okay, the way we stare at it, as if it were a detonated bomb. He tilts the box to the left then right, cautiously turns it in a complete circle. I imagine a tiny trapeze artist inside spinning round and round â€“ Flying Marvel! in poufy blue shorts, yellow shirt, perfect calves in white tights â€“ sand trickling soundlessly through the delicate apparatus. At home, we move her around all the possibilities to a great round of applause. She dangles, resting, in the center of the box from a bar in the centre. We offer: shaded among flowering wild onions or next to a vase on a bowed oak shelf. Mother, is this the box you hoped for? We carry her downstairs to her basement apartment; encircle her with a chorus of wooden icons. No she answers.