The kid in the back seat
asks about the sandwich bag
packed with powder
in the seat next to her.
"That’s not powder,"
I say, "It’s ash.

"That’s my father over there."
The kid doesn’t know
what I’m talking about.
Me either.
"It’s some of my dad’s cremains,"
I explain,
"I take him wherever I go."

The kid asks:
"Do you take him very far
as you travel in your car?
Does he make the voyage fast?
Do you think cremains will last?"
I smile and state:
"I’m always looking for places
to leave my father.
"We’ve dropped some
at his birth street
and where he moved to
and the other buildings where he lived.
"We’ve left some at some offices
and with some friends
and we’re bringing some
to vacation homes
– when we go on vacations."

The kid grins.
"So he’s more
than the some of his parts?"
"Very punny," I reply.
Kid doesn’t seem freaked
by the body in the back with her.
Death might be natural
when you’re young
or when you’re twisted
or when the form of death
looks a little like
something you might sniff.

We don’t talk about the bag anymore
on the trip.