until that Saturday
when the doorbell rang:
and there stood a man
thin and bedraggled
and dripping in the rain.
He held a clipboard
and a small warped box,
containing my mother
or rather her remains.
Sign here, he said,
and handed me the box.

Funny how this came
surprisingly unbidden,
though I’ve often wondered
if in a weak moment
I didn’t wish for this –
But now that it’s here
what am I to do
except to hold it close,
feel its roughness
up against my cheek,
and smell that terrible smell
of factory cardboard
now finally between us.