“Do you think you’ll remarry?” The question stunned me, and all I could do was stare at the woman seated before me. I wasn’t looking to replace a broken dishwasher for Christ’s sake. “So, do you think you’ll get married again?” my realtor asked again. I knew immediately after my husband’s death I would not keep our winter home in Florida. My eyes drifted over to the bedroom where my husband’s ashes were encased in a plain, cardboard box on the closet floor. It’s been his temporary resting place for nearly a month, until I decide where to cast them.
Nancy Hesting’s stories and poems have appeared in numerous publications. nancyhesting.substack.com