THE DIFFERENCE

by Emily Ferrara

I wrestled your ashes from the funeral urn,
a cylinder, too narrow at the neck. The plastic bag
held fine sand, a crumbled wall of ecru and pearl.
I tried to weigh you on the bathroom scale.
I held you, stepped on the scale, stepped off,
put you on the edge of the sink, stepped on again—
holding, not holding: the difference.
I didn't trust it. I took your ashes to the market,
placed the bag on the produce scale,
watched it sway. I bought three nectarines,
each one unblemished gold, and crimson.
Six-and-three-quarter pounds
you weighed, two pounds less than at birth.