The Ceremony

Veronica and Sylvie met at ten o’clock the next Saturday morning. They chose the entrance to the park on Ninety-Eighth Street because it was located between their apartments.

The air had that grassy, fresh green smell. Veronica led them to the meadow she and Cadbury had spent the most time in and then to his favorite tree. She remembered so clearly the way he used to sniff around the roots and squat as though he was about to poop, then stand up and resume his search. Sometimes he would walk around the trunk four times before settling on the right spot. Like he only had one chance and it had to be perfect.

Veronica opened her wooden box and looked at what was left of her most special friend. She would never understand how he had become a box of remains. But she knew she was going to spread Cadbury’s ashes and she knew this violet patch growing between two roots was the right place. She had searched high and low for a poem or a prayer or some way to honor him and do him justice. She had made herself hysterical, in fact, but now, watching the gray grit sift toward the ground, she felt there was nothing that needed to be said. The rain would fall, the earth would absorb his ashes, and in a matter of time Cadbury would literally become part of the tree he loved so much. He would live again as part of something else.

She and Sylvie spent the rest of the day in the park. They trekked under bridges, over hills, through cherry groves. They climbed rocks and lay in meadows. Veronica felt the same kind of thrill as when she’d first discovered the park with Cadbury. And just like with Cadbury, she was surprised at how close she could feel to another living being, this time Sylvie, when they didn’t speak at all.