Elegy

February 1, 2015 - February 1, 2026

My niece was three days old on the day my dad died. In the blur of events, I don’t remember how old she was when she arrived with my sister from Minnesota to my parent’s house in Tucson. Not even a week. My husband took a picture of her, swaddled tightly, called her baby burrito. My sister was still recovering, still unable to sit for long periods of time. So when we arrived to Sabino Canyon, instead of hiking to the spot, we waited to board the tram. It was off-season, thankfully few other tourists in line, all happy and laughing, oohing and ahhing over my niece, amazed that she was already out and about at only a few days old. We couldn’t say, how we weren’t there out of choice, out of a desire to bring the baby into the outside world. How we were there on a clandestine operation, disguised as a normal extended family on a day trip, really there to release my father, a small box hidden in my mom’s backpack.

I remember I didn’t board the tram with them. I ran into the park, a place my dad had once logged miles and miles. I tried to find his footsteps everywhere. I still do.

I’d recognize the rocks at the tram stop anywhere, the place where we’d picnic on Sundays when we were young. Me and my brother, six and four, jumping in the water, when there was enough water to jump in. Following my dad over the rocks. My sister, only two, under a cottonwood tree, where we’d eat cheese and butter sandwiches and throw stones into the water while my parents read the newspaper.

Now, we carried my dad over the rocks as we walked upstream until we were alone, a solemn procession wearing not black but various forms of active wear, sweatpants, tired jeans. The water gurgled, enough current to carry the ashes—so light, impossibly so, an entire body, an entire life, with so little heft and yet so much impact. So cold, the water, as it touched our hands clenching the ashes, mixing with our tears, taking them tumbling down the mountain, over the rocks where we used to jump. My husband and brother-in-law stood vigil over my niece, the baby burrito nestled on the rocks.

A yellow and black swallowtail butterfly flickered over our heads. We didn’t comment on in, then, but years later, we all realized we thought of him whenever we saw a butterfly, even though we never did when he was alive.

Photo by Krzysztof Niewolny on Unsplash

I often wonder, where those ashes ended up, where the atoms that were carried by the water are now. My niece just turned eleven, her birthday always tied to her Opa, through no fault of her own. She also loves to run.