My parents’ ashes are still in a cardboard box on the metal shelves in my basement. It’s not all their ashes, just my share. They left instructions, but no deadline: when the dogwood blooms, on that trail near the pines. Sometimes I feel a slight pang—is keeping them like this undignified? Disrespectful? But then I forget them until I need the crockpot, and there it is, the little box, heavy for its size, labeled in my writing, next to my daughter’s baby clothes. I haven’t held it since we moved ten years ago. But I might. I could.