Arlen finished his spreadsheet and shut the laptop. It was an hour past quitting time, but he had achieved an advantageous position for tomorrow. He sat back and rubbed his eyes. Grainy. He gazed at the ornate bookcase across the room — oak with scrollwork — a gift from his mother.
The first shelf held heavy computer books. The second shelf had fiction and poetry. The third shelf was where Arlen’s eyes went. It was incomplete. On the left was a silk flower bouquet. On the right was a space. His mother’s urn had been on a small display platform. A cheap and unsteady one, in hindsight.
Two days ago, Arlen was vacuuming his office. His mind had been distant; he lost spatial awareness. He had stepped back, pulling the vacuum close, and hit the shelf with his elbow. Hard enough to make a bruise. Hard enough to knock his mother’s urn off its base. He had watched it fall. The tiles caught and dismantled the ornate vase. His mother spread out over the floor.
Arlen had looked at the ashes, vacuum in hand.
In the present, he stood up and pushed his chair back. Arlen shook his head. He no longer wanted to think about this. He left his office and went to the kitchen. He was hungry. He got some jelly out of the fridge.
The doorbell rang. He wasn’t expecting anyone. A woman wearing a white shirt and purple pants.
“I have a package for Arlen,” she said.
“Um,” said Arlen, “I’m him. What is it?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to open it. But, first, sign here.”
“Uh, right. Sorry,” replied Arlen. He signed on the digital pad she offered.
The woman handed Arlen the package and walked to a delivery vehicle on the street. Arlen went inside, taking the package. He took it to the counter and opened it with scissors. A chill ran down his spine.
Inside the package, wrapped carefully, was his mother’s urn.
