One year later.

Grandpa is watching me as I scoop up the dust of his body and scatter it across America. Parts of him are floating in creeks and lakes and waterfalls. Parts of him are blowing in the red desert. Parts of him are drifting between the fiery leaves of eastern Autumn. But even as his body dissipates, pouring between my fingers, we feel the entirety of him, propping us up, we feel the full weight of his absence leaning on our shoulders.

One year after his death, he appears to me in a dream, smiling mysteriously. He has a tiny plant in his hands and even though there are suspicious eyes peering at us on all sides in this shadowy underworld, I squat and dig my fingers into the soil. I dig a small hole in the earth and sprinkle a handful of his ashes in the opening. Grandpa hands me the plant, and I tuck it in, covering and patting its roots gently. It's the smallest little thing, but it feels important — he's picked the exact spot for this unassuming little plant to flourish, its tiny roots pressing through the rubble of his bones.

It's been one year, Grandpa, but your presence has yet to diminish.