One morning in Iowa,

three pickup trucks on the gravel road turn,

one by one onto the track leading into the timber.

Five deer appear on a parallel trail as if to see what’s going on,

silently walking through the trees toward higher ground.

A half-mile in, the trucks reach a clearing on a gentle slope,

circle and park, nose down and pointed toward the road.

Seven people emerge from the trucks,

one of them carrying the Old Man’s ashes in a red velvet sack.

They walk gingerly on the dew-drenched grass

and gather in a small circle.

The weak autumn sun filters through the trees

to cast a muted light on the pond below.

Birds call to one another, and the faded leaves rustle in the trees.

The man carrying the red velvet sack stands a little above the others

and begins to speak.

He, and the listeners, are related to the Old Man;

two sons, a daughter, a granddaughter, a great-grandson,

a son-in-law, and a daughter-in-law.

They are part of a much larger family, most of whom attended the Old Man’s funeral thirteen years ago.

After that funeral service, the ashes had been placed on a shelf.

In a room.

In Wisconsin.

The Old Man’s remains might have stayed there forever.

Someone said, “We should do the right thing.”

But where? In the cemetery where the Old Man’s wife was buried? Out west where he’d gone hunting, though no one knew exactly where? Or in the place where he was born; in the timber where he’d hunted for squirrel?

The speaking man, the son-in-law,

reminds everyone about the funeral thirteen years before.

He reads part of a Psalm,

“The LORD is merciful and gracious,

slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.”

He speaks of the quiet beauty of the spot

urging the family to focus on the abounding love of the LORD.

He prays,

asks God to bring comfort,

to help the little circle,

the three generations,

to be more loving, more forgiving, more trusting in God.

Opening the red velvet sack,

he hands it to the eldest son, who struggles to step a few feet into the brush.

Ashes float down from his hand.

Each one in turn takes some of the Old Man’s ashes

and returns them to the ground,

to the earth from which God had formed the first man.

The great grandson asks, “Has everyone had a turn?”

Receiving affirmative nods, he pours out

the remainder of the Old Man’s ashes.

Someone says, “That was nice. I think he would have liked this.”

One by one, the pickups leave the clearing

follow the narrow track back to the gravel road,

and turn to go their separate ways.