[Poetry | Issue 10]

Kelly Garriott Waite

Ashes to Ashes

My mother cupped half an ash
tray in her hand wandering from
room to room wondering where
she'd misplaced herself. 

When united with its better half,
the ashtray was an owl,
tarnished green and vacant eyes
dispassionately watching 

my grandmother and her daughter
knitting words into pearls, 
sitting around the kitchen table
lowering their voices as they 

told family stories, reunited
every summer, smoke
curling around their heads.
My father turned the TV

down and pretended not to
listen from the other room
as they flicked their stories,
long lines of ash that held  

their shape even after they'd
been tapped into the tray. I pawed
through the ash, searching
for my mother.

__________

About the author

Kelly Garriott Waite writes essays, fiction and poetry from Ohio.