Picking out an Urn

What a beautiful day for picking out an urn.  First the man tries to sell me a fingerprint ring and a pendant, then a vial to keep ashes of my love, around my neck.  I look at him and say what the fuck are you doing?  I want to cremate my husband, I want to pick out an urn and I want you to have respect for him.  I am not at the mall, please do not ask me about all these useless questions that seem to be necessary for the sales pitch.  Leave me alone.   I may have to strangle you.  Take me to the urns.   Downstairs.  Down a long winding staircase as if straight from Gone with the Wind.  Gorgeous.   I walk to the urns and know exactly which one.  It definitely is not the one with the flowers, or the oriental styling or the pink etching.  It is a brass and gold, strong and masculine urn.   A sturdy one.  One that will withstand the elements longer than he did.  And I will take three miniature ones.  Three so we can take part of his ashes and spread them in Jenny Lake, where he spent so much time. Plus it is illegal and that makes it much easier to think about.