“Dead is dead,” she squawked, taking a swig from her can of Bud; a product she’d consumed every night for over 80 years. “You don’t come back.”
“You don’t believe in reincarnation?” I asked, cracking into the leg of a crab we caught that day.
“Maybe we live on in those we love,” she conceded.
As my uncle emptied her ashes off the pier, a crab crawled up the seawall and climbed inside the ball cap he’d set on the bench.
Sitting next to it, he let it cling to the Bud insignia until the sun sunk into the Atlantic.