Laid to Ashes.

Everyone wanted a piece of you—
as morbid as that sounds,
I assure you it was sweet.

My sister and I sat on the porch
in the afternoon sun of early spring,
with paper cups and Ziploc bags.

I held the sealable plastic open
as she scooped you up.

“This is hard,” she said.

I could only reply,
“What else can we do when his widow says help?”

We continued in silence,
splitting as equally as we could.

The air picked up—
and with it, my hair—
and I made the mistake of speaking:

“Hi, Dad.”

You blew into my mouth then,
and I swallowed,
because spitting seemed like an insult.

I reminisce now,
still a little pissed
that you had the last laugh after all.

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