He Came Back to Me in a Black Paper Bag.

I held him carefully so the bottom wouldn't fall out.

At home, in his favorite chair.

It didn’t occur to me until months later to look up the place on Yelp.

Had I done that, I would have chosen a different crematory. For double or triple the cost, I’d have tolerated the unctuous concierge, the practiced sympathy, the efforts to upsell me to some new-age American Way of Death. The eco-shaming:

Did you know that there are more gentle ways to ease your loved back into Earth’s embrace? Water, not flames. Paths through wooded lands, native plants, stone markers carefully placed as if by Gaia herself, near a tall oak of your choosing?

No. I did not know. I recycled those glossy brochures.

The service I chose was three miles from the hospice, in an area zoned as light industrial. I lived nearby.

Was it too late to leave a review? Probably. What would I say?

Easy access. Convenient! Had no problems getting into the parking lot. Cried my eyes out on the way home.

---

I sat stroking his hand as it stiffened and chilled, rocking slightly in my chair. His mouth was open, frozen in the anguished rictus of Munch’s The Scream.

“What was it you saw?” I whispered, pressing my forehead against his, as if to retrieve his last thoughts, to erase the terrifying images. He’d battled the air. Demons? Satan himself? When I leaned to embrace him, he’d sat up and shoved me away with a shocking, devastating fury. I wanted to replace these horrors with gauzy pastoral scenes, suffused with light, welcomed by the loved ones who’d passed before he did. He’d lived a good life. He deserved a good death, even if it was after the fact.

My husband died during the three minutes between the time I’d left his room to escort our son and daughter to the front door of the hospice. We’d spent the intimate day under soft lighting with a courtyard view. Look, crocuses! we lied. Snow was falling over frozen soil. A long winter had delayed that explosion of color and warmth. We kept repeating that we’d be okay, that it was all right to leave. He’d given us what we needed to live full and happy lives. We love you. We’ll be fine. It’s all right for you to go.

At around six, he settled into sleep. His rough breathing softened. After a while, when I thought he seemed stable, I stood up.

“I think it’s all right for you kids to go home. Get some rest.”

Their faces were lined with fatigue. Mine probably was, too; I hadn’t checked a mirror in days. We left the room at 6:38 p.m. They signed out in the visitor’s log at 6:40. I returned at 6:41. The stillness in his room told me he was gone.

I waited until exactly 7:00 to press the button to summon the nurse. Then I called the children. Come back. He’s gone.

The bold sans-serif digits on my lock screen assured me that at least one part of my mind was functioning in real time. The two dots of the colon pulsed; the minutes moved sensibly forward. After a year in which the regular patterns of sleep had disappeared, my thoughts had lost their sharp boundaries. They blurred and wavered; colors blending, pigments separating. Numerals were marked buoys in the new, strange, dark waters of grief.

At home, curled under the duvet, I heard, faintly, Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. It took a few seconds to remember that this was my ringtone. I’d buried my phone in my purse, having called my sister-in-law. She was the only person I could bear to speak to; she’d notify the rest of the family.

“Hey. Did you call the Society? Because they’re usually pretty quick to get back to us.”

Society. Like the Jesuits? I realized that she was talking about the crematory service.

“I called at 8:53.” It was 12:14. “You haven’t heard back?”

How exasperating to be stuck at work, babysitting a body. I redialed, and got a woman with a voice like sandpaper. Abruptly, without a greeting, she spoke.

“Yes, I got your message. I didn’t answer because I was busy. That’s how it is, on the road.”

On the road? The place was three miles away.

“I’ll send the guys over. Who died?”

“My husband. We were married for forty-three years —”

“It’s not an obituary.” She went straight to her checklist. Last, first and middle names of deceased and survivors. Social Security numbers of deceased and survivors. Date, state, county, and city of birth. Of death. Mother’s maiden name was a guess, due to some complex family history. When she’d finished the inventory, she said, “Container.”

“Container?”

She made a sound between a sigh and a grunt. “A black plastic box is forty bucks. Since you’re doing this on the cheap.”

On the cheap. Pummeled in the heart, I said, “Can I get a different one later?”

“Oh, sure. Some people change to something nice. But we don’t subtract the difference.” She coughed. “Eight-hundred eighty. Plus tax. I don’t have my calculator. I’ll call when it’s ready.” More coughing. “Next week, ballpark. I’ll call you Friday.”

She hung up. It had taken six minutes to turn the seven decades of my husband’s life into a few lines of desiccated print.

She had not voiced even the most conventional of platitudes: I’m sorry for your loss.

---

She didn’t call on Friday. I didn't notice. There were other things. Friends, family, flowers. Long conversations with financial and government institutions. I showered and ate. The weekend passed.

I waited until Tuesday, and got the answering machine. The next three days, the same. On Saturday, she picked up.

“You know it’s not a business day. I’m not even supposed to be here.” She slammed the receiver down.

---

On the following Wednesday, two weeks after his death, I called. Someone else answered: a woman with a different, younger voice.

“It’s not here yet.” She paused. “Wait. There's a shipment coming this afternoon.” My heart pounded as she put me on hold.

“They just unloaded at the dock. Swing by any time after one.”

---

I drove past the place three times. It was the right address, but it didn’t match my expectations. I’d been looking for white columns and a long vehicle with curtained windows. I pulled over to the side of the road.

Yes, Siri confirmed, that nondescript row of office fronts was the place. At 1:11, I walked through an unmarked door and turned left. A wooden counter formed a makeshift desk in from of a warren of cubicles. Behind it sat an unsmiling woman with blond, prematurely stiffened hair. She held up one finger; she was on the phone.

Behind her, young men and women dressed in corporate suits sat in chairs too big for them. They were leaning into screens, holding phones between face and shoulder, writing in ringed notebooks, typing on keyboards. As I waited, similar people came and went. They crouched in front of a printer that sat on the floor amid a tangle of gray cords. They picked up their printouts and moved down the narrow hall, without glancing at each other.

After finishing her conversation and jotting something down, the woman at the desk looked up.

“You’re here for . . .”

I gave her his name.

“Right. We don’t accept credit cards. Cash or check only.”

She hadn’t told me, but I was prepared. I pulled out my checkbook. She wrote out the bill on a small tablet with carbon paper behind the original. It was just like the ones they use at the butcher shop where I buy wild rice sausage.

She handed me a small white envelope with his name and a number printed on the front.

“These are the papers you’ll need if you choose to disperse his ashes on public land, less than three miles out to sea, or during travel or transport by airline.” Again, no Sorry for your loss. She stood up and came around the desk, holding a black gift bag by the handles. I took him, cradling him from below.

He was still warm.

---

When I got to the car, I removed my husband from the bag. One of those Over the Hill birthday gift bags, it was beginning to tear.

The wind was cold. I took off my winter jacket, wrapped him in it, and placed him on the floor behind the passenger seat. He weighed about the same as a healthy newborn boy.

His oldest, rattiest sweater. I can’t bring myself to throw it out.