My brother’s ashes were heavier than his baby

Dear Delyara, My younger brother died at thirty-four, leaving a six-month-old daughter. At the funeral home, they handed me the urn because his wife was too weak to carry it. I was surprised by the weight. When his daughter was born, I held her with one arm while taking photographs. Today, I needed both hands to carry what remained of her father. During the service, the baby became restless and reached toward the urn because it was shiny. Her mother moved it away. Everyone cried harder. I kept thinking about how one body had become two different kinds of weight in the same room: a child growing heavier each week and a father whose weight would never change again. Afterward, my sister-in-law asked me to take the urn home overnight because she could not bear it beside the cot. It is on my dining table now. The baby’s bottle is in my bag because I accidentally brought it home too. I placed them side by side and immediately felt ashamed, as though I had arranged a cruel photograph. Still, I cannot stop looking. Tomorrow, one will be returned to a mother. The other will be scattered. I do not know which act feels more impossible.