Now, the memory's a runaway balloon, the string just out of reach.

     On top of you.

     She looks at the tunnel's tiled ceiling. She thinks about the

     river above as the buoyant memory slips fully away, perhaps with a

     slice of irony.

When the car emerges from the subterranean, she presses her forehead to

     the window and squints at the looming buildings, stretched like

     morning runners against the blue sky, ready to go. The energy here is as it always was. As it should be, she thinks . . . but still, it hurts.

Against her leg, the urn presses, nestled in her tote.

His ashes, he'd decided, were to be scattered in the city, with his

     best memories. Falling in love with her, he said, year after year. A

     lifetime of nowhere-to-be strolls. Endless conversations.

At first, he'd wanted his ashes everywhere. A sprinkle in Central Park,

     a dash on the Upper East Side, a clump in Soho. A smattering in the

     theatre district, at the Met, even in The Village and along the

     Hudson. Perhaps a bit in Washington Square.

But then he'd realized how hard it would be for her, spooning him out

     little by little, like ground coffee.

"No," he'd finally said, as the end grew nearer and nearer. "Just put me in the river, on

     the New York Side. I'll make my way around from there." He winked,

     slapping his knee like they'd decided on their evening plans, and he was ready to go. "Yes. That'll do."

She nodded.

He squeezed her hand. "Perfect, eh?"

"Oh honey. You're silly."

"Always will be."

She choked on the looming loneliness and squeezed back.

At the waterfront, she leans against the railing. Tote and purse hang

     from her shoulder.

"Still at my side." She mutters, patting the bag with trembling

     fingers. She closes her eyes, imagines him. Breezy autumn morning, his

     favorite.

It's silly, she knows. He's already gone. But this last bit of his

     physical self, she can't stand to let it go. She reaches in, toys with

     the lid of the urn.

With her eyes still closed, she hums, the lullaby of their children.

He'd watch from the doorway, pride welling. For his wife, his babies.

     "Voice like an angel," he'd whisper.

She knows her voice was never good, but she sings to him now, eyes closed and emotion welling, this moment a crescendo of the last few years.

     And in a moment, the denouement.

The weight of him, in the urn, cuts into her shoulder. But then he's

     falling, roughly pulled from her. She opens her eyes.

A young man with a bearded chin and frantic eyes leers. "Give me your bags!"

She's frightened, so frightened, but she grabs hold of the straps

     tightly, ready for battle.

"Get away from me!" She growls.

His eyes widen with surprise, but he doesn't relent, pulling, fingers

     working at hers, prying.

With everything she's got, she swings, hurling it all into the Hudson.

     Wallet, cosmetics, envelopes, loose change rain from her purse.

     Sinking.

The tote whirls, somersaulting, the urn slipping from the canvas.

She watches the urn, distantly aware of running. The would-be thief gone.

As if in slow motion, the urn's top plunks into the river. A spray of

     white-grey ash arcs into the water like a swan dive, slipping without sound below the surface.

Without fanfare.

It's beautiful.

THE END