When my grandma died
We used a hairdryer to blow her ashes
From the window of our hotel room
We used them to seed the clouds,
Turning them gray, turning them black,
Which was about how we felt.
We listened to the thunder gather
While our glasses clinked
Against a tall bottle of whiskey.
We held them up as it began to rain,
Tiny droplets of water
That had condensed around flecks of dried, dead granny.
No one shivered as she touched our faces,
No one covered their drinks to keep her out.
We just stood, and listened, and drank
Beneath the dark Texas sky.
Alex Mattingly lives in Avon, Indiana. His work has previously appeared in 63 Channels, The Flying Island, ScribeSpirit, Artisan, Flashing in the Gutters and Genesis.