The box in my hand was both heavier than I expected and lighter than it should have been, as I carried it across the field to that single maple tree, alone in that field, that had already dropped half its leaves. She'd always loved October, and she'd loved this tree. When I got there, I cried a while; then I poured out her ashes and walked away. The leaves crunched under my boots until they didn't.
A question: whose are the ashes, and who is scattering them?