I still go to call you.
When the door opens
Rise, run to greet you.
So I took your number from the phone
and now look for it.
I lock the door,
So it won’t open unbidden
Expecting to see you.
We tossed your ashes to the river.
I stood downwind,
Poured them into my hand,
Threw them high.
They flecked across the moon,
They mixed with the new grey in my hair,
Covered my face.
I took a breath
Deep.
Your ashes
Taste of salt.
Adam Byrn Tritt 
Sewa Yoleme
September 14, 2011 at 5:56 PM
Damn. Someone is slicing onions again.