by Molly O’Dell

Sorting the contents of his house, post-mortem
I find boxes, drawers, bags and hordes of blue
and amber medicine vials, some with childproof
tops and older ones with snap off caps.

At thirteen he grew pot plants on the slanted roof
outside his bedroom window. He was never without.
These pill bottles stored, swapped and shared weed.
I keep four. One for each sister, brother and me.

The crematory container’s a hefty plastic bag.
Gritty and gray, his ashes slide easily
into each of these colored plastic vials.
I never realized cremains are mostly bone.

He asked each of us to scatter a bit
of him in a place he’d never been.
In the Aegean Sea, where I sprinkle him,
sunlight makes his dust gleam.

Image by Jim Niakaris via Unsplash