Yesterday was a hectic day after work.
I didn't feel like making that much effort at dinner, so I bought a rotisserie chicken and some potato salad.
I put a little gas in the vehicle.
I kept a medical appointment.
I picked The Daughter up from her day camp, and treated her to a Slurpie from 7-11.
I bought a ream of paper for the printer.
I picked up the little cardboard box, about the size of a new box of checks (or the box your year's worth of church donation envelopes come in, if you do that sort of thing), containing Baby Fiona's ashes.
Almost three months after she was born, and almost a full month before she should have been...I brought her home.
There is "more of her" than I thought there would be. The box is surprisingly heavy. The ashes themselves are in a Zip-loc bag. They are mostly a fine gray powder, but there are bits of coarser, whiter material scattered throughout. We'll find some kind of appropriate container sometime...but for now, her little box is wrapped in a blanket.
Three children. Two are in boxes.
Forgive me, world...but there are times when I hate you.