Grains of Sand, by Nina Miller

No matter how much I vacuum, there are grains of sand on the floor of the car and the trunk. Some mysteriously find their way between the sheets of my bed, but the scratchiness is friendly-evocative.

I wish I were of a religion that believed in cremation.  I like to think of myself becoming grains of sand, washed onto a beach and captured by children
building an elaborate sand castle. I will be the turret, on which they place a flag made of a red, white and blue ice cream wrapper. And eventually a wave will come and invite me to rejoin the water of the ocean, until once more, with the shifting tide, I arrive on the beach.

But my people insist on pine boxes lowered into six-foot holes when the sand runs out of someone's hourglass.  I would rather spend eternity in that glass, being flipped to measure the length of lives, or at least the timing of a 3-minute egg.