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ASHES TO ASHES

There, what was that?

Eileen Cleghorn walked over to the fireplace, careful of where she stepped. A small bookshelf stood next to it, still in surprisingly good shape, considering...

On the middle shelf sat a box fashioned from wood and brass, the lid held shut with a tiny lock.

She lifted the box and pressed it to her chest, hugging it tightly. Tears rolled down her tired, haggard face as she clenched the treasured keepsake. Her sanity was inside.

Eileen tilted the box away from herself and allowed her fingers to trace over the design inscribed on the top. 'Mom' it said, one simple word surrounded by intricate scroll work. Her son Bobby had made this box for her in shop class and it was dearly important to her, not only for its sentiment, but for its contents.

She set the box down and removed her necklace, upon which hung a small brass key. She slid it into the lock on the front of the box and turned, releasing the mechanism and allowing the lid to open.

Eileen hesitated momentarily, closed her eyes, then summoned her courage and lifted the lid all the way open.

She opened her eyes again.

On top was a photograph of a young boy in a baseball uniform, connecting his bat with a pitch. Her Bobby hitting his first home run. She smiled softly as she gazed at it, the scene coming to life in her mind's eye.

Eileen could see her boy, eight years old, running like the wind around the bases then high-fiving his teammates in the dugout. He'd been so happy on the ride home, asking over and over again; "Did you see it mom? Did you see it?"

She'd had to reassure him many times that she had seen it; and when he'd come home from school one day the following week to find this photo stuck to the fridge, he'd beamed with pride.

Another photo was underneath this, Bobby's graduation portrait. Her hand covered her mouth as she choked back tears; this picture was taken only six months ago! Her pain was so raw.

There was a small plastic Zip-loc bag under the photos. Eileen opened it up and softly caressed what was inside between her thumb and forefinger. It was a lock of hair.

It wasn't Bobby's. It belonged to her daughter Anna, Whom she'd lost long ago, ten months after Eileen had been married.

She hadn't even been able to touch or hold her daughter, at least while she was alive. The doctors had been to busy trying to save her, though the congenital heart defect had simply been too much for the tiny, premature infant to overcome.

Eileen held the bag up to her nose and sniffed. Others

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