Compass by Dani Sandal

It’s three in the morning and my wife is standing in the doorway of our garage in flannel pajamas and that pink robe she’s worn since high school. She’s watching me use a red Gerber spoon to dip into the urn and finally she goes, “Bobby, you just can’t do it — it’s too morbid. What kind of ceremony is that anyway, to shoot someone out of a gun?”  – – Dani Sandal

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