Promises to Keep, by Carol Caffrey Witherow,

PROMISES TO KEEP

But I have promises to keep… And miles to go before I sleep. 
- Robert Frost.

The branches of the trees stood bare and weightless.  A sullen quietness hung in the air.  To the right, a flash of squirrel tail in the undergrowth.  To the left, nothing but the dank and stagnant pond.  It seemed a good place to do it. The eyes – hooded, wrinkled - swivelled around the clearing again.  No other signs of life.  Good.

His fingers, fumbling in the cold, caught in the torn pockets of his coat. The container slipped from his grasp.  He swore.  Typical.  His back creaked as he bent down to retrieve it.  Impatient to get the thing done he blew on his hands. Some birds flapped skywards.  Startled by ghosts.  He spat out the phlegm that had risen in his throat and unscrewed the lid.

No words came to him.  No memories, either, just echoes: curses flung into a room; the slamming of a door.  She would have had plenty to say.  She should have died roaring.  You’d think that would have been the way she’d go.  He could feel the cold seeping into his bones.  This place had been warm and alive once.  They had been young once.

He tipped the container upside down, a swift pouring out, then scuffed at the grey pile with his toe.    His cheeks were numb.  He rubbed them, streaking moisture across the grooves of his face.  He cleared his throat, turned his back and headed away from the woods, the ashes already absorbing the damp around them.