Ashes to Ashes

by Jill Crainshaw

No one knew where she came from—

sprung up out of the soil of her daddy’s old farmhouse?

Blew in with the fragrance of gran’s roses?

Tumbled from the clouds in a thunderstorm, more likely.

When she died we scattered her ashes

in the bluebonnet patch by the pond

guided by flickering lanterns of summer fireflies.

She’d left instructions in her will—well

on an old napkin from the cafe downtown.

That was the essence of her liminal life,

Veiled. Fleeting. Floating. Willing. 

I didn’t expect the wind to dance that evening.

But just as we released her ashes, they

blew up in a puff of silver-white into

my face

hair

eyelashes.

“Maybe she’ll grow back

now that we’ve planted her,” my sister laughed.

But we knew who had the last laugh—

growing ghosts from winter ground was her specialty.

I wore her red silk scarf that day—

to be close to the essence of her.

Vinegar and raspberries—the scent of her voice. 

Now her essence claims my eyelashes

seasons my hair

tickles my nose.

I laugh too. 

She—the rootless floating one—

her ashy essence clinging to mine.

As I touch a finger to my eye

the waning moon wanders up over the trees

and a whip-poor-will sings.

* * * * *

Jill Crainshaw is a poet, preacher, and teacher. Through her writing and teaching, she celebrates life’s seasons and seasonings. She and her two dogs, Bella and Penny, look for poems each day in their back yard. Sometimes Jill writes them down. Check out Jill’s most recent book, Thrive: How professionals 55 and over can get unstuck and renew their lives on her website, jillcrainshaw.com.