Today, in yoga, the instructor told me to breathe, so I did. She told me to let go of the parts of my body I did not need for the position, so I unclenched my jaw, released my neck, relaxed my shoulders. She told me to breathe, again. I am a child in this class, forgetting the basics of staying alive. Breathe. When it is done, when all that is left is to lie down like a corpse and let the world go, I think of my father and my quarter of his ashes. When they were divided did we each get an equal portion of limbs and organs, or did one of my sisters get the kidneys while I got the heart? And what of his bones? Those bones that began decaying as soon as he left the Army. Will there be bits of them that wouldn’t burn? Will I run my fingers through the ashes as I do sand at the beach? What am I to do with what is left of him?