Here on my lap, in a small plastic bag, my share of your ashes. Let me not squander them. Your family blindsided me with this gift. We want to honor your bond they said at the end of your service, which took place, as you'd arranged, in a restaurant at the harbor, an old two-story boathouse made of dark wood. Some of us sat on the balcony, on black leather bar stools, staring at rows of docked boats. Both your husbands showed up and got along. And of course your impossibly handsome son. After lunch, a slideshow and testimonials, your family left to toss their share of you onto the ocean, along with some flowers. You were the girlfriend I practiced kissing with in sixth grade during zero-sleep sleepovers. You were the pretty one. In middle school I lived on diet Coke and your sexual reconnaissance reports. In this telling of our story your father never hits you or calls you a whore. Always gentle with me, he taught me to ride a bike after everyone said I was too klutzy to learn. In this version we're not afraid of our bodies. In this fiction, birth control is easy to obtain, and never fails. You still dive under a stall divider in a restroom at the beach to free me after I get too drunk to unlock the door. You still reveal the esoteric mysteries of tampons. You still learn Farsi and French from boyfriends as your life ignites. In high school I still guide you safely out of the stadium when you start yelling that the football looks amazing as it shatters into a million shimmering pieces, as you loudly admit that you just dropped acid. We lived to be sixty. Then poof, you vanished. I can't snort you, or dump you out over my head, coating myself in your dust like some hapless cartoon character who's just blown herself up, yet remains unscathed, as is the way in cartoons. In this version, I remain in place for a while. Did you have a good journey? I'm still lagging behind, barking up all the wrong trees, whipping out my scimitar far in advance of what the occasion demands. As I drive home from your memorial, you fizz in my head like a distant radio station. What can I do to bridge this chasm between us? In this fiction, I roll down the window, drive uncharacteristically fast. I tear your baggie open with my teeth and release you at 85 miles an hour, music cranked up full blast.