Still. Emma Hansen

him in his grave. I do not want us to be separated.

      So then it has to be cremation. Doesn’t it? I see an image of him entering a tomb of flames, reduced to dust in an instant. It is horrible too, but it is the awful that we feel most at peace with. We can keep his ashes with us wherever life takes us next.

      Later, I’ll speak to a cremator about the cremation process. I will enter a sizeable room lit from above by florescent panels, its air filled with a steady, low hum. On the far-left side sits the machine, a large brick oven, that generates this noise. Directly in front of it, a broken fluorescent panel exposes two long naked bulbs.

      I will see the casket, fashioned from particle board with words from loved ones scribbled in permanent marker all over the outside. It rests on top of a large metal platform, on a bed of metal rods that spin when one end of it is raised to help the casket glide into the kiln.

      I will walk over to Gale, the cremator, and try to calculate if I can ask him what’s been on my mind. I will look him in the eye and ask if the process for babies is any different than what I am witnessing. I will ask because I can’t get the sound of the casket thudding into the base of the furnace chamber out of my mind. I can’t imagine a casket a fraction of the size making it off that conveyor.

      Gale will not falter. He will be calm and return my gaze before asking, “Approximately what size?”

      “An infant,” I will start to cry. “Around eight pounds.”

      I will be surprised to see Gale start to cry too, silent tears hitting his cheeks. He will respond with this: “I place babies in by hand. And instead of heating up the chamber first, I keep it cool. I think it’s gentler that way. Most people in my profession do this too, and I can’t speak for everyone, but I’ve learned that we all have the utmost respect for the soul and its journey.” He will lift his glasses slightly to wipe underneath his eyes and adjust them back in place. “I like to go longer for babies too. So that I know for sure that it’s done all at once.”

      I will thank him, because this is information I would rather know about than wonder.

      The first weekend we were home from the hospital, I made a list of questions to ask the funeral home:

       Where will he be cremated?

       How long until we can get him back?

       Will he be cremated on his own or with other babies?

      I wrote down the last one after someone mentioned it on an online forum I found. She said that some funeral homes cremated babies together to make sure there were “enough” ashes to give the family. Apparently some babies are so small, she wrote, that there was practically nothing left of them.

      When we walk through the doors of the funeral home, the middle-aged receptionist looks up. I notice her blouse has a snag in it near the neckline. I appreciate that; it seems almost a kind gesture to meet the grieving slightly unkempt.

      “Hello,” she says, pushing her glasses back up to the top of her nose. “Are you Reid’s parents?”

      We nod. She offers her condolences and leads us to a large conference room down the hall. I keep pressing the tip of my nail into the belly of my palm, focusing on the pain it causes. I will use this trick many times over the years that follow to keep tears at bay.

      She tells us that our caseworker will be in shortly and gently places a binder on the table in front of the chair across from us. Before she stands up to go, she meets my gaze and pauses.

      “I’m not supposed to show emotion or talk about anything personal with our families, but I can’t not say anything. How can you not cry when something this awful happens? I read your blog, and I just need to say how sorry I am.” Tears are pooling in the corners of her eyes and her mouth begins to tremble. She looks from me to Aaron and back to me again. I thank her for saying something, and her hands fiddle at her center for a short while before she finally rests a palm on top of my own. She strokes it once and gives it a pat and then she excuses herself and leaves us alone.

      A few minutes later, the type of man you’d expect to work at a funeral home enters the room. His dark hair is gelled into a perfect comb-over and his suit is immaculately pressed, its gray fabric registering not a speck of lint.

      “I am so sorry for your loss,” he begins.

      He sits down across from us and goes through the binder. Discussions of the crematorium and ceremonies are had, presumably—I don’t register any of them. I do pay attention when he leads us into the room that holds all the urns. Countless vases and boxes and vials line the walls. And then, at the back, the single shelf that holds the ones small enough for infants.

      After it all, we end up back at reception. The receptionist with the kind face prints out an invoice and reads it over before saying, “That will be $183.75.” Tears begin to fill her eyes again.

      I hand her my Visa. Not even two hundred dollars to reduce our son’s body to ash. I don’t know why, but I want it to be more.