A Discarded Shirt

The pale white sack is made of rough, thickly woven cotton. It is tied with string at the top and bunched at the bottom. It dangles from my hand, almost touching the ground, its dense contents weighing around five kilos. I hesitate at the door of the SUV, wondering where to place it before we start the journey.

I consider placing it on the floor of the vehicle. But that would mean putting it near my feet. I cannot bring myself to do that; it strikes me as utterly disrespectful. I feel guilty for even having the thought.

I think about placing the heavy wet sack on my lap. That is not an attractive prospect, as I imagine sitting still for hours, my legs cramping under its weight, my damp trousers sticking to my thighs, the slight smell of sick from the sack too close to ignore.

While I hesitate, my brother- and sister-in-law, my son, and the driver have all settled in the car. Finally, I decide to stow the sack in the luggage compartment. I place it on the light gray matting in the company of a spare tire, a bottle of IndianOil Servo XEE engine oil, a grease-stained tool bag, and a battered metal first aid kit.

Once I shut the luggage compartment, I pause, plagued by doubt. Should I have kept it with me in the cabin?

The cloth sack contains my father’s bones.

We are on our