A Box of Beary.

It'd been two weeks since they called to say KoBear's ashes had arrived. And I felt simultaneously guilty for leaving him there, and grossed out by the idea of picking him up. Who was this person who actually took little Beary's body and burned it? Did they watch as it happened? I don't think I would have chosen to have his remains if it weren't for Temple, who is sweetly sentimental and ritualistic about these things.

But alas, the errand fell to me, and finally this Tuesday, I bit my upper lip and ran it: I went back to the cancer doc where Kodie passed away to pick up his ashes.

I wanted to make it quick, even left the car running, so I could run in and out, and make a clean get-away. But as I stood there, waiting in the reception area, I realized it wasn't going to be so easy.

The receptionist pulled a box out of the cupboard. She handled it very sweetly, very gently, and walked it around the desk to hand to me with both hands. Very respectful, almost as though she were giving me the flag draped over the coffin of a fallen soldier. I took it with both hands, and walked very carefully to the car.

I was holding it together - for all of those two seconds I was in public - until I got that Box of Beary into the car, sat it down in the passenger seat, and realized it was all I had left of my baby boy. That box that sat next to me, that I was afraid to open, afraid to jostle, and afraid to drive with for fear of spilling him -- that was all I had left.

I cried uncontrollably. All those snuggles, all those smiles, the high-fives, the fetching, the swimming, the Kobear Hole, his last days so sad and sick, and the particular pain we feel in his absence -- it all came rushing over me.

So this weekend, at Montara Beach, with Bailey and Temple, my mom and her two goldens, we will open the Box of Beary and spread his essence all over Montara Beach. And this season of Camp Fluppy Puppy will begin on a very somber but important note: in tribute to KoBear.