By: Elizabeth Lasiter
I just dropped my ex’s ashes on the floor. They were in between a book crease, contained in a wearable orb. A charm-sized takeaway from a funeral I don’t remember.
When I look at them I think body sugar. A sweet mix of rot and Danish. The same smell my father had days before death. It makes me sick to think about, but I just want to know where he is now. I will illy traverse mediums.
I’m not sure if I feel him now when I pass the same places. I think of rides in cars through neighborhoods of my youth. Dirty quarters for gasoline and dirt weed. The smell of hair and how it finds its way into the handful of someone else.
If I could ask you one thing it would be where to put my body now that you’re gone. My fingers roll your body sugar around in my palm. I sense phantom hands on my neck and I feel more at home.
Elizabeth Lasiter is a female writer living in Sonoma County. She is originally from Little Rock, AR. Laister received her MFA in creative nonfiction at Saint Mary's College of California in 2016.
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