There was something so deeply intimate about being there in Troy, going through my Uncle's space, a space now empty of his physical presence, and yet he was everywhere. In the look on Rusty's face, the notes left on the table, a book on the nightstand, boots kicked off and laying on the floor.
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His ashes are heavy in my arms. And just like he did with my Grandpa before him, with my bare hand I lift the ashes out and let them fall through my fingers to the gentle wind, to the tall grass, to the river rocks, and to the wild river.
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There's deep sorrow and a calming peace in doing so. He's where he wanted to be. And I look at the bend in the river and tears of joy might stain my face, and the summer sun might burn me till I'm blind. But not to where I cannot see him walking on the back roads, by the rivers of my memory, ever smilin', ever gentle on my mind.
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Those song lyrics have been in my head and I take a moment to say goodbye before I rise from the riverside, and return to the others.