The Linnet's Wings Summer 2014 - Page 74

When my mother was reduced to the stuff that does not burn, we put her in a river and roots of her beloved trees of rue, and anywhere ashes might go unnoticed, in the city where exile is in the air, flotsam that rises with the sun. My sister did not wish to be spread out, so she chose the bay that took in prisoners and their grandiose plots. When the boy who lost both parents had their funeral, he poured them over the edge of the pier and people said they could hear them,