Poof by Amy Gerstler

Poof

 

Here on my lap, in a small plastic bag,

my share of your ashes. Let me not squander 

them. Your family blindsided me with this gift. 

We want to honor your bond they said at the end 

of your service, which took place, as you’d 

arranged, in a restaurant at the harbor,

an old two-story boathouse made of dark 

wood. Some of us sat on the balcony, on black 

leather bar stools, staring at rows of docked boats. 

Both your husbands showed up and got along. 

And of course your impossibly handsome son. 

After lunch, a slideshow and testimonials, 

your family left to toss their share of you 

onto the ocean, along with some flowers.  

 

You were the girlfriend I practiced kissing 

with in sixth grade during zero-sleep 

sleepovers. You were the pretty one. 

In middle school I lived on diet Coke and 

your sexual reconnaissance reports. In this 

telling of our story your father never hits 

you or calls you a whore. Always gentle 

with me, he taught me to ride a bike after 

everyone said I was too klutzy to learn. 

In this version we’re not afraid of our bodies. 

In this fiction, birth control is easy to obtain, 

and never fails. You still dive under a stall 

divider in a restroom at the beach to free me 

after I get too drunk to unlock the door. You still 

reveal the esoteric mysteries of tampons. You 

still learn Farsi and French from boyfriends 

as your life ignites. In high school I still guide you 

safely out of the stadium when you start yelling 

that the football looks amazing as it shatters

into a million shimmering pieces, as you 

loudly admit that you just dropped acid.  

 

We lived to be sixty. Then poof, you vanished. 

I can’t snort you, or dump you out over my head, 

coating myself in your dust like some hapless cartoon 

character who’s just blown herself up, yet remains 

unscathed, as is the way in cartoons. In this version, 

I remain in place for a while. Did you have a good 

journey? I’m still lagging behind, barking up all 

the wrong trees, whipping out my scimitar far 

in advance of what the occasion demands. As I 

drive home from your memorial, you fizz in 

my head like a distant radio station. What 

can I do to bridge this chasm between us? 

In this fiction, I roll down the window, drive 

uncharacteristically fast. I tear your baggie 

open with my teeth and release you at 85 

miles an hour, music cranked up full blast.