Little Johnny had a ravenous desire for chocolate chip cookies. No obstacle would thwart his quest. The five-year-old focused intently on constructing a tower of disparate objects. A stool, several small boxes, he placed a chair next to the stool and started the next layer of the tower: two three-ring binders he found in the boxes that Mommy had packed when Daddy went to be with God.

He slowly ascended to the top, the unstable tower wobbling under his unsure feet.

He reached for the sky, the cookie jar just inches from his reach. On his tip-toes, he extended his arm once more.

“Got it!” he exclaimed just before losing equilibrium and plummeting to the floor. The lid flew off the urn holding his Daddy's ashes, the ashes showering his little body. 

Shocked, little Johnny sneezed before screaming, “Mommy!”

She sprinted into the living room and screamed. The urn, no longer on the mantle above the fireplace, her child white as a ghost.

Years later, John Thompson is haunted by the thought that he might have swallowed part of his father’s soul.

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