After our first beer I will tell Frances what else I have in my bag. A small box, barely heavy enough to contain my girl with her loud, volatile ways and her Molotov cocktail of a brain, but she is in there all the same; a small, black box with her ashes inside, and on the bottom, beneath the word Deceased, it reads Elizabeth Jane Hudson. I’m here to ask Frances for one last favour: to walk up to the Downs with me and release my girl to the wind. Below us will be the sun-warmed grass, the river, the town. We will stand together as the wind dances her ashes against the blue sky like long, winding ribbons, a grey comet trail disappearing over the hills.