Tucked away in my dresser drawer is a small, wooden box just big enough to hold a neatly folded, but perhaps tear-stained handkerchief.
But that’s not what it really holds.
The box — sturdy, but poorly finished — supposedly holds the ashes of my beloved cat Yoda. Yoda’s life ended when we lived in Arizona more than a decade ago.
While I have never been able to toss the box, I have long ago decided that it is unlikely that much, if any, of Yoda is in there.