I carried the blue urn, protected as carefully as on the first visit.

The ring rested in its pouch in my coat pocket.

The willow branches moved above the shore.

I remembered arriving alone, talking about the faucet, and opening the lid before I was ready for what would be inside.

This time, I knew what the urn held.

I also knew what it did not hold.

It could not contain every version of Patrick.

The loving husband.