Granny rides on the backseat near me
as my brother drives the two lane roads,
crosses the bridge over the Nisqually River.
He pulls onto the verge and despite the warning
signs, ‘Restricted, Military Personnel only’ follows
the dirt lane to the dead end where the river
slowly churns just beyond the shrubs.
We pick our way along a grassy path
to the water’s edge.
I climb down onto small boulders,
open my Ziploc bag, pour out
The small bone chips join rock
and sand below. The rest of her swirls
with the eddies, clouds on a blue sky.