Porous

We spilled some of her ashes on our way through the woods. The weight of the urn tore a hole in the backpack, and the urn hit the ground hard, knocking the lid loose. She had been gone a while, but it came to us that our favorite spot, a quiet bank by the river, was a good resting place.

The wind blew some of her downstream when we took the lid off and tipped it toward the ground. She floated in the air, dust suspended in a beam of light. The rest of her we scattered along the bank, the ashes creating a dark streak over the copper-colored dirt. After, we stood on the bank arm in arm, breathing in the crisp air of early fall.

I fished smooth stones from the cold water and skipped them one by one to the other side. The stones leapt a foot at a time across the water. A crow let out a warning call. The water became still, and reflections of trees along the bank emerged on the surface. It’s too quiet, you said and shouted our names into the air, pausing to see if our voices would be returned like echoes.

From the muddy shore, we tossed heavy stones into the shallow river. Perfect rings shot out in all directions like small tsunamis. I dug into the wet earth. Mud and ash covered my hands then dried and cracked as we sat in the sun watching the crow leap over our heads from one branch to another. It takes time, you said, but I could hear the weariness in your voice.

You dropped my hand and took up skipping rocks, frowning with each attempt. The ones you chose were too heavy and sunk to the bottom. I thought about finding the perfect stone for you, standing behind you and teaching you how to snap your wrist to give it momentum.

Porous, I said. I shielded my eyes from the sun with a cupped hand. You asked how I felt earlier this morning. I feel porous. You didn’t answer and gave up trying to make the rock dance across the surface of the water without sinking. The crow called out again, and I looked in its direction.

Shadows fell across the river as the sun set, and, somewhere, further into the forest, water rushed over the rocks wearing them away, hollowing them out. In complete stillness, I could feel the erosion of the earth, the slow passage of time, little by little, becoming a gorge made of blood and bone.

Author of the article

Robin Littell holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University. She is the author of Flight, the 2018 Vella Chapbook Winner at Paper Nautilus Press. Her flash fiction has appeared in the Hawaii Pacific Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Tin House, Fiction Southeast, and others. Originally from the flat part of northern Ohio, she now lives in southern Ohio (less flat) near a river, a nature preserve, and a gorge carved into the Earth by glacier water 18,000 years ago.