i.m. Neil Armstrong
Although the polycarbonate container was
purple, the exact hue of burgundy, the
ashes inside, caught by the
slanted teatime light through a
south facing window were the
colour of the moon on a dull
night. Their grains were, on closer
inspection, a myriad shades of white
through to grey. Smaller than sand,
they were dusty; like the remains
of a sawn cinder block or the
grittiness that sits on a stone
wall in hot countries. I used
a plastic tea spoon, one purloined from
a cheap café, to scoop half measures
of this moon into a small
clear plastic bag: though falling
like water, or thick monochrome blood,
the powder acted like a mass of
individual grains. I could see their
angles; uncut diamonds they flowed
smoothly and, still, collectively. I
put the envelope of ashes in a
soapstone Indian dish rested upon by
seven bronze buddhas. One of them has a
bell inside.
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