I found my mom’s ashes at the foot of my dad’s bed, wrapped in her favorite light blue cotton sweater and nestled between a cold hot water bottle and a thick pair of wool socks from REI.

My dad had been sleeping with my mom’s ashes for seven years, a well-kept secret that, upon discovery, was both triumphant and incredibly heartbreaking. To think of my dad and the love of his life, boxed in at his cold feet night after night, crushed my already grieving soul. I had a hunch that in his cocoon of despondent sorrow, he had coddled the ashes somewhere safe, beyond the inquisitive mourners and the reality of what had happened, and as much as I wanted to know where they had gone, I never asked him. And now, nine days after he collapsed on my aunt’s hardwood floor on my 41st birthday, it was too late.

The sweater still smelled faintly of gardenia, my mom’s favorite flower, and the scent she always gravitated toward.

I’m curled tightly around its now lifeless form, my weeping face nestled in its buttoned bosom, one that, with my mom inside it, used to give me such comfort, but now gives me nothing but overwhelming sadness. I never understood why she liked that sweater so much. It wasn’t particularly soft or warm, and the buttons were small and sharp against my cheek. But in the tenderness of maternal comfort, my ear planted on her heartbeat as she stroked my hair and told me everything was going to be OK, none of that mattered. It only mattered that I felt safe, and that I believed her. I always did. But here I am now, on a damp day in December, at the foot of the bed with not one, but two gray metal boxes, an empty hot water bottle and a pair of wool socks at my cold feet with no one to ask but myself - is everything going to be OK?