We Opened Your Ashes Dad

Dear Dad,

Your best friend, Trapper Tim, came over to help me access your ashes. I couldn’t bring myself to do it alone. While Bryce would’ve done it for me in a heartbeat, I wanted it to be Tim. His heart hurts so often missing you. He’s taken time to check on Heart Lake, and more importantly, he’s taken time to miss you properly.

He came to get some ashes to bring to the spot that only you, he, and I know about—the place where you caught that wolf once upon a time. I remember how our sled died and left us stranded in the backcountry. You were carrying a huge frozen wolf on your back, and I was dragging your giant rifle—practically as tall as me—back to the cabin. You were so proud of little me, even while carrying something twice my size.

When Tim came over, I wasn’t sure how to open the box we’d ordered for you. It seemed totally sealed. I told Tim he could do whatever he needed to do to get it open—and that I’d get you a new container if we broke it. I also shared that I want to turn some of your ashes into a diamond I can wear all the time.

Tim was so careful, slowly trying to detach the seams. It felt like it had been superglued shut. Maybe I ordered it that way? I don’t remember—ordering a box for your dad to go in is an impossible task. That whole time is painfully blurry.

After several minutes of delicately trying not to damage anything, Tim and I both said “fuck it,” and he started cracking at the seams a little more. Then he froze. The look on his face said we’d messed up—and just realized it. Hidden beneath the cute little “legs” on the box were simple screws. A Phillips head and five seconds of sense could’ve saved us a lot of time. We both laughed, knowing you were calling us numbnuts and dingdong—among other things.

He took you out that same day. It was beautifully sunny. The earth still crisp, but the skies warm. We both agreed: this was your favorite time of year. It was the perfect day for Tim to miss you. I wish I could’ve gone with him. My leg is holding me back, and I feel a small piece of the frustration you must have felt being stuck in a body that wouldn’t listen.

It eats at my soul when I stop and think about you. I don’t cry every day anymore, but when I slow down—even for a moment—I feel this deep guilt for living life without you. I know that’s silly. I know you wouldn’t want that for me. But still… I’m alive, and you are not.

Visit me in my dreams, if you can. I miss your guidance, your humor, your chuckle, your stubbornness. I’d give anything for just one moment to forget you’re gone—and feel, even for a second, like you’re still here with me.

I’ll see you in my sleep, my Troll.

Love,

Sierra Winter Blue Nose Little Bear Macoons O’Connor