Redshirts

her husband; a representation of a life lived in love and with love.
    Samantha picks up the ream of paper, walks over to the small portable shredder she’s purchased and runs each sheet of paper through it, one piece at a time. She takes the shredded papers into her small backyard and places them into a small metal garbage can she has also purchased. She packs the paper down so that is loosely compacted, lights a kitchen match and places it into the trash can, making sure the paper catches. When it does, Samantha places the lid on top of the garbage can, set slightly askew to allow oxygen in while keeping wisps of burning paper from floating away.
    The paper burns down to ashes. Samantha opens the lid and pours a bucket of beach sand into the trash can, smothering any remaining embers. Samantha goes back into her house to retrieve a wooden spoon from her kitchen and uses it to stir the sand, mixing it with the ashes. After a few minutes of this, Samantha upends the trash can and carefully pours the mixture of sand and ashes into the bucket. She covers the bucket, places it into her car and drives toward Santa Monica.
    *   *   *
    Hello.
    I don’t know what to call you. I don’t know if you will ever read this or if you will believe it even if you do. But I’m going to write like you will read it and believe it. There’s no point in doing it otherwise.
    You are the reason that my life has had joy. You didn’t know it, and you couldn’t have known it. It doesn’t mean it’s not true. It’s true because without you, the woman who was my wife would not have been who she was, and who she was to me. In your world, you played her, as an actress, for what I believe was only a brief amount of time—so brief that it’s possible you don’t even remember that you played her.
    But in that brief time, you gave her life. And where I am, she shared that life with me, and gave me something to live for. When she stopped living, I stopped living too. I stopped living for years.
    I want to start living again. I know she would want me to start living again. To do that I need to give her back to you. Here she is.
    I wish you could have known her. I wish you could have talked to her, laughed with her and loved her as I did. It’s impossible now. But at the very least I can show you what she meant to me, and how she lived with me and shared her life with me.
    I don’t know you; I will never know you. But I have to believe that a great part of who my wife was comes from you—lives in you even now. My wife is gone, but knowing that you are out there gives me some comfort. I hope that what was good in her, those things I loved in her, live in you too. I hope that in your life you have the love that she had in hers. I have to believe you do, or at the very least that you can.
    I could say more, but I believe the best way to explain everything is simply to show you everything. So here it is. Here she is.
    My wife’s name was Margaret Elizabeth Jenkins. Thank you for giving her to me, for the time I had her. She’s yours again.
    With love,
    Adam Jenkins
    *   *   *
    Samantha Martinez stands ankle deep in the ocean, not too far from the Santa Monica Pier, and sprinkles the remains of Margaret Jenkins’ life in the place where she will have one day been on her honeymoon. She does not hurry in the task, taking time between each handful of ash and sand to remember Margaret’s words, and her life, and her love, bringing them inside of her and letting them become part of her, whether for the first time or once again.
    When she’s done, she turns around to walk up the beach and notices a man standing there, watching her. She smiles and walks up to him.
    “You were spreading ashes,” he says, more of a statement than a question.
    “I was,” Samantha says.
    “Whose were they?” he asks.
    “They were my sister’s,” Samantha says. “In a way.”
    “In a way?” he asks.
    “It’s complicated,” Samantha explains.
    “I’m sorry for your loss,” the man says.
    “Thank you,” Samantha says. “She lived a good life. I’m glad I got to be a part of it.”
    “This is probably the worst possible thing I could say to you right this moment,” the man says, “but I swear you look familiar to me.”
    “You look familiar to me too,” Samantha says.
    “I swear to you this isn’t a line, but are you an actress?” the man asks.
    “I used to be,” Samantha says.
    “Were you ever on The Chronicles of the