A few years ago, in 2004 to be exact, Rosalie Asher died. After her funeral, her niece Bonnie Fovinci was sorting through Rosalie’s office, making two piles of stuff. One to save and one to throw out.
She picked up a black vase from the shelf next to Rosalie’s desk. Junk, she thought, preparing to toss it on the ‘throw out’ pile. Instead, she weighed it in her hands. It was heavier than a vase needed to be. Looking closely at it, she discovered it was metal. And not really black, but more of a dark, smokey gray color. There were some scratches on the base. No, they were letters inscribed into the metal. A name and two dates.
Holding the vase up to the sunlight, she angled it so she could read the name. When she read it she stopped breathing for a few seconds. Slowly she sat down in Rosalie’s chair behind the desk.
Setting the black vase on the desk in front of her, she stared at it, lost in thoughts of a past gone by. It wasn’t a vase. It was an urn. The kind of urn that held the cremated remains of dead people. Only this urn was empty.