The Dying Wish

How far will Evan and Abigail go to grant what may or may not be their father’s final request?


Weekly Newsletter

The best of The Saturday Evening Post in your inbox!


“He was such a good man.”

The woman sitting on the couch hears these words for what feels like the hundredth time today. And though the sentiment is not new, she still feels fresh tears filling her eyes.

“If you need anything, anything at all, promise you’ll call me.”

The woman on the couch nods but knows she will never call this person who she finally realizes is one of her husband’s distant relatives. Now that her husband is dead, she wonders if the two of them are even related anymore.

The woman on the couch slowly stands and the now possibly non-relative hugs her awkwardly and then leaves the house.

“Is that the last of them?” the woman formerly on the couch all but shouts.

Two heads pop out from different doorways at opposite ends of the kitchen.

“Mother, please!” the woman’s daughter says.

“They better be gone. I can’t cry much longer.”

“You could have stopped hours ago,” the woman’s son says.

“No, I couldn’t. What would the neighbors say if I wasn’t a mess after my husband’s funeral.”

Both children are in their thirties, yet being back in the house they grew up in somehow makes them act like adolescents.

“You’re safe, mother. Everyone is gone,” says the son. His name is Evan, and in the world outside this house he is a respected architect people listen to.

His sister’s name is Abigail. Outside this house she is a real estate broker people listen to until they don’t, because everyone knows brokers exaggerate.

“Why are you two in there?” the mother asks. “Come sit with me.”

The children obey, Abigail joins her mother on the couch; Evan, preferring some distance, chooses a chair that is separated from the couch by a wooden coffee table.

“You two are my rock,” the mother begins. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Tears blur her vision and she dabs her eyes with a balled-up tissue she has in her hand. “I am so blessed.”

Abigail reaches for her. “Oh Mom,” she says softly. “Is this the act again?”

“How does she do it?” Evan asks his sister. “How does she summon tears on demand?”

“A lifetime of disappointment,” the mother says in a huff. She picks up a rectangular box that’s about the size of a shoe box if your shoes are a size eight. The box is an appropriately somber black color with just enough of a gloss to make it look vaguely expensive.

“These ashes are all I have left of your father.”

“Besides the thousands of photographs you have of him,” Abigail says. “And all his drawings and letters.”

The mother closes her eyes.

“You have his entire wardrobe. All his paintings, the recordings he made, all the tools from his wood shop.”

“All right fine,” the mother interrupts. “So I’m embellishing things a bit.”

“What a surprise,” Abigail mutters.

“Now that it’s just us, you should know your father’s dying wish.” Again the tissue finds its way to the mother’s eyes.

Evan sighs. “Mother, we all know Dad couldn’t talk the last few weeks of his life. There’s no way he had dying words.”

The mother folds her arms across her chest. “Well aren’t I lucky to have such know-it-all children.” She pushes herself farther back on the couch. “I know your father’s dying wish even if he didn’t say it.”

Evan and Abigail pout like chastised children.

“All right, what was it?” says Evan.

“He wanted to go home,” says the mother. “That’s what he asked over and over. When could he go home.”

“That’s so sweet, Mom,” says Abigail. “He wanted to go to Heaven.”

The mother slaps her hand against the arm of the couch. “Go home to his apartment in the Bronx! The one he grew up in with his brothers and his aunts and uncles. That’s where he wanted to go.”

“Well clearly he can’t go there anymore,” says Abigail.

“Why not?”

“Uh … because he no longer exists.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” The mother holds up the box of ashes as if her children have never seen it. “Now it’s easy for him to travel. He hasn’t been this portable in years.”

Evan runs his hands through his hair. “Don’t you think being here with you — in the house you both lived in for 40 years — is way better than any place in the Bronx?”

“But it was his dying wish,” the mother says as her tears start flowing again.

To Evan the tears seem genuine, so he gives in. “Yes mother, okay. I’ll look through Dad’s stuff and see if I can find an old address.”

“Eighteen-fourteen Grand Concourse. Apartment 6F,” the mother says, suddenly dry-eyed.

“You’ve already thought this through, haven’t you?” Abigail says.

“I guess we could make a trip to the apartment building and sprinkle a few ashes on the sidewalk or something,” says Evan.

“Put him on the sidewalk like some homeless person? Absolutely not.” The mother points her finger at Evan for emphasis. “You have to put him inside the apartment. And not on the floor. Or on a rug or under a rug. I don’t want your father ending up in somebody’s vacuum.”

Evan starts to massage his temples. “And how do we get inside? I don’t see that happening unless you have a battering ram I don’t know about.”

The mother takes the box of ashes and clutches it to her chest. “If you want to honor your father you will find a way.”

* * *

“I think there’s an easy way out of this,” Abigail says to Evan. “There’s no reason to make our lives more difficult than they already are.”

The siblings sit in Evan’s car, which is stuck in a line of traffic clogging an entrance ramp that leads to a bridge that leads to the Bronx.

“Let’s just tell her we put Dad’s ashes in the apartment. We don’t have to actually do it. She’ll never know if we don’t.”

Evan holds the steering wheel with both hands even though his car hasn’t moved for a while. “I don’t want to lie to Mom,” he says.

“Like that would be a first,” Abigail replies.

Evan stares at the cars going nowhere. “The traffic can’t last forever. Let’s find Dad’s building and see how my plan goes. Who knows, maybe this’ll be easier than we think.”

Eventually the traffic dissipates and with a minimum of wrong turns Evan finds the Grand Concourse. Abigail calls out the numbers on the buildings to make sure they’re headed in the right direction. She’s genuinely surprised when she shouts “1814” as if the place existed only in stories.

The apartment building is six stories tall and has a beige limestone façade. It’s old-style cornice and the wrought iron railings along the first-floor windows make the building look dated rather than classic.

Evan parks the car. When they’re on the sidewalk, Abigail helps adjust the tool belt around his waist. The belt is made of some kind of animal hide. It has loops that hold shiny wrenches and screw drivers. The belt and the tools are spotless.

“You look like you just graduated from the Plumber Academy,” Abigail says.

“That’s part of the plan.” Evan adjusts his safety goggles and baseball cap.

Once Evan picks up his tool bag they head for the entrance and the imposing-looking metal door surrounded by large windows.

“So while I’m executing my brilliant plan, what will you be doing?”

“Don’t you worry about me,” says Abigail. “Do you have the baggie?”

Evan pats his pockets, sighs, then heads back to the car. When he returns, Abigail is gone. As he scans the sidewalk for his sister he hears someone knocking on a window. Evan turns and sees Abigail waving at him from inside the apartment building. He hears the click of a lock and the metal door swings open.

“Some guy let me in,” she says.

“A stranger just let you in?”

“Of course. Right after I told him I left my keys in my apartment upstairs. They’re very helpful here.”

Evan walks through the lobby. “Let’s find the elevator.”

“Don’t you want to look around? Dad played in this lobby as a little kid. Can you imagine?”

“I’m trying not to.”

“Maybe he played hide-and-seek. Or knocked on apartment doors then ran away. There’s all kinds of mischief you can get up to in an apartment building.”

Evan passes a row of mailboxes and memorizes the name on 6F. Then he finds the elevator.

The ride is slow and the elevator creaks as if it has very old bones. When the doors rattle open on the highest floor, Evan sticks his head out and sees a hallway dressed in shades of brown: carpet the color of wet sand and beige walls with chocolate-colored baseboards. He sees a few apartment doors, then the hallway turns 90 degrees and goes on for who knows how far.

“Let’s go explore,” Abigail says. She steps out of the elevator. Evan follows. They scan apartment doors for numbers or letters and find some doors have neither. When Evan turns the corner he sees a small plaque on the wall that reads:

Apartments D – I ->

He spots the apartment he wants a few doors away. Evan puts his hand on his sister’s shoulder and pushes her back toward the elevator.

“Go hide,” he says. “I’ve got this.”

When he arrives at 6F, Evan puts the palm of his hand flat against the door as if feeling for a heartbeat. After a moment, he knocks.

“Hello, Mrs. Miller,” he says loud enough to hear through the door. “It’s Dan, the super’s assistant.”

There’s a rattling of chains and the thud of a deadbolt unlocking. Then the door opens an inch. Evan sees an eye peer through the narrow space.

“The super told me you had a complaint.”

“I have lots of complaints. The clog’s just the latest one. When did Marcos get an assistant?”

Evan smiles. “I’m new. Want me to take a look?”

There’s a white ball of fur in Mrs. Miller’s arms. It starts barking at Evan.

“Cookie, please,” Mrs. Miller says. She tightens her hold on the dog. “The pipes in the bathroom rattle. They wake me up at night. Can you fix that too?”

Evan shifts the tool bag to his other hand. “You should speak to the super. He only mentioned the clog. Go talk to him now if you want. I’ll be here when you get back.”

The door opens farther and Evan is allowed inside. Mrs. Miller has curly gray hair and wears a sweater even though it’s summer.

“The clog’s in the kitchen,” she says. “If I knew you were coming I’d have filled the sink to prove it.” She goes to the kitchen and turns on the faucet. “It’ll take time to fill up. Maybe I will go see the super and after we can talk.”

Evan nods though he’d agree to anything that gets the woman out of the apartment.

When Mrs. Miller steps into the hallway, a white leather leash tethers the dog to her right hand. In her other arm she cradles her pocketbook, eyeglasses, a bag of dog treats and the keys to the apartment. The dog tugs at the end of the leash.

“Hold on a second, Cookie. I have to close the door.” As Mrs. Miller fiddles with the doorknob she drops her keys and then her glasses. When she drops the bag of treats the dog lunges for it.

“No, Cookie,” she yells.

“You need an extra hand, don’t you?”

Mrs. Miller pivots toward Abigail. “This dog has me all out of sorts today. He’s obsessed with going outside.”

Abigail picks up the woman’s belongings and then sees the nearly pristine “6F” on the door.

“I can help with that,” says Abigail. “I’m a professional dog walker.”

“Oh, that’s nice, dear. But I’m on my way to see the super.”

“Maybe just a quick walk,” says Abigail. “For Cookie’s sake.”

The older woman eyes Abigail. “I don’t recognize you. Do you live here?”

Abigail smiles. “I’m visiting friends downstairs. They said there’s a good view of the city from up here.”

“That’s the other hallway. The one on the other side of this floor. There’s a big window at the end of it.”

Abigail pets the little dog. “Why not do the walk then see the super? And I’ll tag along on the walk — no charge of course — to memorize your route. If you ever need a dog walker, I’ll know exactly where to take Cookie.”

She returns the things the older woman dropped, all except the dog treats.

Cookie starts whimpering. “It has to be a quick walk,” Mrs. Miller says as she locks the door.

While they wait for the elevator Abigail feeds a treat to Cookie when Mrs. Miller isn’t looking.

“How long have you lived here?” she asks the older woman.

“My family moved in ages ago. Now I’m the only one here.”

“Ever think of moving?”

“Oh they’d love for me to move. When a long-time tenant leaves, Management rips the apartment apart, does a total redo, and charges a fortune for it.”

The elevator dings and the doors rattle open.

“Remember, a short walk, dear.”

Abigail nods as the elevator doors close.

Inside 6F Evan sees a living room with ornate furniture and velvet drapes along the windows. There’s a large kitchen to the right and a poorly lit hallway to the left.

Evan thinks about the ashes. Where could they go and never be disturbed? What’s accessible but inaccessible? His eyes focus on the walls and he finds an answer.

“The outlets,” he says out loud.

Evan kneels in front of the nearest wall outlet and removes the plastic cover. It’s an old-fashioned duplex outlet that looks like two white stop signs stacked on top of each other. Evan removes the screws that anchor the socket to the electrical box, then tries to twist the socket and pull it forward, but the wires are stiff and uncooperative.

“Move, will you,” he mutters as he applies more force. Suddenly, sparks fly out of the outlet and the wallpaper turns black and starts to curl.

“Why are you burning?” he cries. Evan grabs a rag from his tool bag and smothers the flame. He sees a trail of scorch marks above the outlet and hopes Mrs. Miller has terrible eyesight.

There has to be a less flammable option for the ashes. Evan scans the apartment, then marches toward the kitchen. He pictures the wall cabinets in his kitchen. There’s a foot-long gap between the top of the cabinets and the ceiling. A perfect place to hide ashes since it’s too high to easily reach and no one ever vacuums up there. But he sees his cabinets are not like Mrs. Miller’s cabinets. Hers go right up to the ceiling. They also frame both sides of the refrigerator so he can’t toss the ashes behind the white monstrosity that’s humming nonstop.

Behind the stove is a possibility since it’s clearly not flush against the wall. But Evan rejects the idea; it’s too hot back there. It’d be like spending eternity in hell.

As he’s about to abandon the kitchen as a final resting place, Evan looks at the corner where the cabinets next to the stove meet the cabinets along the side wall. The corner isn’t perfect. There’s a gap. Maybe because of shoddy craftsmanship or perhaps the cabinets shifted over the decades. Whatever the reason, the gap is a godsend. There’s just enough space to slip something sentimental inside.

Evan takes the baggie of ashes out of his shirt pocket and drops it on the glass stovetop while he works out how to get the ashes into the gap. The baggie is hardly a precise pouring tool so Evan decides to spoon the ashes into the gap.

“No screw ups this time,” he mutters while practicing his pouring motion with a spoon he finds on the countertop.

For extra stability, he leans his shoulder against the side wall. As he slides toward the gap, his shoulder bangs into the switch plate on the wall and flips the switch that turns on the exhaust fan.

There’s a great whooshing sound over the stove and Evan sees the baggie fly into the air and stick to the ridges in the dome-shaped exhaust hood. He grabs at the baggie but only snares the back of it. As he pulls up the back end, the front seam bursts open and, with a horrifying sucking sound, the ashes disappear into the hood.

Evan gasps and looks out the kitchen window. He sees a ball of gray ash; the particles floating, almost dancing in the air. They glisten as they reflect the sunlight, and for a moment they appear luminous and alive, an entity suddenly weightless and free. And though he wills it to stay where it is, to stay in sight, the ashen ball suddenly dissipates and evaporates in the breeze.

* * *

Out on the sidewalk Evan does his best not to look like a plumber. His hat and tool belt are in his bag, same with his work shirt. He wears sunglasses and a T-shirt. He leans against a tree near where the concrete sidewalk meets the Grand Concourse. When he sees Abigail, the dog, and Mrs. Miller approaching, he turns away as if he doesn’t know at least one of them. As they pass, he eavesdrops on their conversation.

“Look, Cookie, we’re finally home! I never thought we’d make it.” Mrs. Miller sounds genuinely relieved.

“No need to go inside with us, dear,” she tells Abigail. “Cookie and I have had enough.”

Abigail stops short. She sees her brother in her peripheral vision but doesn’t acknowledge him. “Do you want my business number?”

“No dear. I won’t be using your dog-walking services.”

Abigail scowls. “Why not?”

“Because you lost my dog.”

Abigail rolls her eyes. “Well, yes. But I found him again.”

Mrs. Miller tugs Cookie’s leash and walks to the building entrance.

Abigail plods along the sidewalk. She’s well past number 1814 when she steps beside Evan.

“You lost her dog?” Evan asks.

“I had to,” Abigail groans. “We were barely a block from the building when the old lady wanted to go back inside. I let the dog off the leash to give you more time. You found a place, right?”

“Two,” says Evan.

“So how’d it go? Where’d Dad’s ashes end up?”

A long slow sigh escapes from Evan’s lungs. “Not where I intended.”

* * *

“Bet dumping the ashes outside the building looks a lot better right about now.” Abigail says this as Evan tries to parallel park his car in a barely large enough spot on the Grand Concourse. On this second trip to the Bronx, Evan wears a fashionable blazer and dress pants; he’s shaved and has product in his hair, all to look nothing like an assistant to a super in case he runs into Mrs. Miller.

“At least this is our last trip, since I know my plan will work,” Abigail adds.

“Don’t get too cocky. All you did was find an open house.” Evan turns off the engine and exits the car.

“Not just any open house,” Abigail shouts to him through her now open door. “This one’s on the same floor, and it’s an old apartment — just like Mrs. Miller’s.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Evan. He presses the key fob that locks the car doors.

“We’re on a reconnaissance mission. A little scouting and we’ll find a perfect place for the ashes. It makes much more sense than barging into the old lady’s apartment and leaving things to chance.” Abigail trails her brother on the sidewalk. He walks quickly so she ends up talking to the back of his head.

“Speaking of which, you have the ashes, right?”

Evan nods. When Abigail steps beside him Evan takes a few steps away.

“Not too close,” he warns. “We’re not supposed to know each other, remember?”

There are balloons inside the lobby along with representatives from the management company directing guests to the open house.

Evan pretends he needs directions getting upstairs. He steps onto the elevator with a group of strangers and follows them to the open house.

He’s surprised how similar the place looks to 6F. The furnishings might be different, but the layout is exactly the same: the front door leads directly into the living room, to the right is a kitchen, and to the left, a gloomy-looking hallway.

“It’s like déjà vu, isn’t it?”

Evan turns and sees his sister. She holds a plate full of fresh fruit in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

“What?” she says when Evan frowns. “I skipped breakfast.”

“I thought we were on a recon mission.”

“Oh, we are.” Abigail leads him around the living room. “Look at these wood floors. The ashes can go under one of the boards.”

“Yes, I’ll walk into 6F with a crowbar. That won’t look suspicious at all.”

“What about behind the radiator covers?”

“People vacuum them occasionally.”

“No one I know,” Abigail mutters.

The two head down the long hallway. Abigail wanders into the bathroom while Evan goes to one of the bedrooms. He sees the painted wood baseboards along the walls and wonders if ashes might fit behind them. With the toe of his leather shoe he starts tapping the molding hoping to find a loose board. He moves around the room thinking he’s being subtle as he kicks the baseboards until a representative from the management company appears.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asks. “Do you have any questions?”

Evan looks at her and then looks down at his shoe poised to strike the baseboard.

“I have a medical issue with my foot,” he says.

The representative turns and leaves the room.

Abigail breezes into the bedroom looking like she’s had a vision. “I found the perfect place for Dad.”

She pulls Evan toward the door.

“Every doorway has these old metal frames. They look solid but they’re completely hollow. And look what they all have.”

She points to a ¾-inch square hole where the button from the door handle fits into the frame. “There’s a ready-made hole that’s too small for a vacuum hose. It’s like they’re begging us to put Dad’s ashes in there.”

The frame is painted the same color as the walls, so Evan can’t tell what it’s made of. He picks up a pewter figurine from the nightstand. There’s a hollow-sounding chink, chink, chink as he raps it against the door frame.

The representative Evan spoke to earlier reappears.

“Are you two together?” she asks Abigail.

“Certainly not,” Abigail says brusquely. “Actually I was just about to come find you.” Abigail leads the representative toward the living room. “I want to ask about your financing options.”

While Abigail invents financial questions, she sees a little white dog attached to a white leather leash that’s attached to a certain older woman’s right wrist. She veers their way.

“Hello, Mrs. Miller. What brings you to an open house?”

“Free food,” says Mrs. Miller. “And Cookie wanted to get out of our apartment.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because morons keep appearing at our door. The other day some assistant super showed up and wrecked our place. I swear he was a worse super than you are a dog walker.” She shakes her head in disappointment. “This building is not what it used to be.”

Abigail forces a smile. “Isn’t this a nice apartment?”

Mrs. Miller shrugs. “It looks like mine.”

Evan emerges from the hallway and sees more visitors than he expected. It almost feels like a cocktail party until a little dog catches sight of him and breaks into a barking frenzy.

“Cookie, quiet!” chides Mrs. Miller.

Heads turn to see what the barking is about. Mrs. Miller is sure she’ll be asked to leave.

“Hush, Cookie,” she says. When she reaches for the dog, she drops her pocketbook and all the paperwork the representatives gave her about the apartment.

“Cookie, what is wrong with you?” she seethes as she lifts his four little paws off the ground.

Strangers begin picking up what the old lady dropped. Abigail grabs Mrs. Miller’s pocketbook. The dog’s mood is no better in the air than it was on the ground. Besides barking and snarling, now he’s squirming in Mrs. Miller’s arms.

“Let’s go to the food table. Maybe I can distract Cookie with a meal.”

“Good idea,” says Abigail, though she doesn’t move. Instead she opens the pocketbook and finds Mrs. Miller’s keys. Then she nods to Evan.

On her way to the table Abigail puts one arm behind her and holds out the keys. Evan slips by and takes them as smoothly as a hand-off in a relay race. He’s out the front door in seconds.

At the food table, Mrs. Miller fusses over a suddenly calmer Cookie.

“Is Cookie all right?” Abigail sounds concerned, but all she cares about is what’s happening in 6F. She steals glances at the front door. When she finally sees Evan, he gives her the thumbs-up sign.

“There’s a lovely view from the living room window, don’t you think?” Abigail asks Mrs. Miller.

The older woman squints and steps closer to the glass. “Out there? All I see are brick buildings.”

Abigail sees Evan moving her way. She takes a piece of roasted chicken and stuffs it into Cookie’s mouth.

“Look between the buildings. They must see lovely sunsets from here.”

Abigail puts her free hand behind her and Evan drops the keys into her palm as he passes by. Cookie’s still chewing when he gets a glimpse of Evan. The dog has to swallow before erupting again. By the time Mrs. Miller looks away from the window, Evan’s back is turned and he disappears among the other guests and out the door.

“Time for me to go,” Abigail says.

“Me too. I’ll walk out with you.”

This is not part of Abigail’s plan. “Really? I’m leaving right now.”

“Lead the way. I’ve got everything I came with.”

Technically this isn’t true, since Abigail still holds Mrs. Miller’s bag, but she doesn’t want to quibble.

When they get to the front door, Abigail lets Mrs. Miller walk out first, partly to be polite but mostly so she won’t see Abigail slip the keys back into her pocketbook.

The hallway is aggressively lit and sparsely decorated. It’s also empty, so their voices float down to Evan, who frantically pushes the elevator buttons to avoid Mrs. Miller and her dog. As the voices get louder, Evan pushes harder. When the elevator finally arrives, Evan leaps in and tries his best to hide.

Abigail turns the corner and sees the open elevator.

“There’s my ride,” she says. “Bye for now Mrs. Miller. But who knows, if I get that apartment, we’ll see each other all the time.”

Mrs. Miller’s eyes widen. “That’s right,” she gasps. “I forgot to tell you my news. I’m moving. I finally had enough of this old building and its staff of incompetents, so I’m getting out while I can. Let them rip my place apart, who cares? I’m going upstate to live with my sister.”

Abigail appears frozen in place.

“Don’t miss your elevator, dear.” Mrs. Miller smiles and walks away.

“She’s moving?” Evan cries when his sister is on the elevator. “After all we’ve done, she’s moving?” His shoulders sag and he collapses against the wall. “This whole thing has been nothing but lies and subterfuge.”

“It’s what Dad wanted,” says Abigail.

“We can never tell Mom about this.”

Abigail smirks. Evan points at her for emphasis. “I’m serious. We can’t tell her. We take this secret to our graves.”

“Assuming we have graves,” says Abigail.

The elevator doors rattle closed.

“Funny how after all this you still end up lying to Mom.”

Evan rubs his temples. “Honestly Abigail, just shut up.”

The elevator shudders and shakes and makes noises that are less than reassuring as it slowly carries them lower and lower until it opens its doors once again and sends Abigail and Evan home, back to the real world where the wishes they focus on are entirely their own.

Become a Saturday Evening Post member and enjoy unlimited access. Subscribe now


  1. If it helps, there are a few indications as to the amount of ashes headed for the apartment.

    In the opening of the story, Evan agrees to sprinkle “some” of the ashes at the apartment building. Next, when Evan is in Mrs. Miller’s kitchen he takes the baggie of ashes he brought along “out of his shirt pocket”. An entire shoebox full of ashes wouldn’t fit into a man’s shirt pocket.

    And he plans to spoon the ashes he brought with him into the space between the cabinets, a task that would take all day if he had all the ashes with him.

    Finally, the baggie has to be small to be light enough to get sucked up to the overhead vent. Since we know the baggie came from Evan’s shirt pocket, we know it’s something small.

  2. Sandy, your point is completely valid about the ashes. I thought about that too. There is no explanation as to how he would have obtained more ashes for a second attempt at sneaking them in at a new location.

    All I can say is I’m so used to goofs in stories and films that I’ve unfortunately come to accept them if I like the story otherwise, which I did here. Still, since the ashes are SO integral to the story, this actually is a rather large screw up J.G. But no problem. I’ll just fix it myself right here!

    Abigail knows the first attempt failed, and is in on helping make this one work. When she asks Evan if he has the ashes he could/should say: “Yeah, thanks to my wisely having brought that 2nd baggie of them!” There. The one sentence explanation that let’s the entertaining story continue as is from that point on.

  3. Makes no sense. The ashes got blown up into tbe air. Then all of a sudden they appear again in Evan’s possession with no explanation. ??????

  4. Well, I thoroughly enjoyed THIS story. Best birthday present I could have gotten today aside from finally feeling great after a lousy spring cold this past week!

    ‘The Dying Wish’ contains all the elements I love most: dark humor, awkwardness, guilt, everything going wrong, a loved one’s ashes, a dog barking at the worst possible moments, but most of all… irony.

    The story started off wonderfully with Evan and Abigail’s mother. What she said reminded me of what Vicki Lawrence (as ‘Mama’) would have said under the same circumstances. Here we have a son and daughter that truly went the extra mile to fulfill their father’s dying wish.

    They could have just told their mother they did what he wanted, but actually did it, even if it didn’t quite work out the way they planned it. It reminds us that we’re not alone in working hard to accomplish something, only for all our efforts to have been for nothing, or so it seems. It’s not their fault the woman was about to move.

    I love your writing style, blending the outrageous with realism making the story very believable. The fact it could actually happen just as you tell it, gives it a special ‘kick’. Having been caught up in various comedies of error myself (not my fault), I have an extra appreciation of what Evan and Abigail went through here, right down to the sleight of hand.


Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *