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When we spread my brother’s ashes in the apple orchard just below the barn, they never blew back in our face and made us sneeze or got in our mouth and made us do a spit-take like they do in the Big Lebowski and all the other hundred movies where the wind blows all the ashes of their loved ones back in their faces.
But it would’ve been much funnier if it had.
And I think my brother would’ve enjoyed it too.
He’d been about to turn eighteen, so I think it would’ve been kind of like the last middle finger of youth.
But in a loving, joking, immature kind of way.
About the Author
Benjamin Drevlow is EIC of BULL and poet laureate of bull. You can check out more of his bull stuff at thedrevlow-olsonshow.com or on twitter, insta, face, bsky, & threads @thedrevlow.
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