by Rachel Linn
Stone
My grandmother died in March, not of COVID-19, but of respiratory syncytial virus. She wanted us to place some of her ashes in Eastern Washington near the Columbia River, among the basalt rocks and sagebrush, though we can’t come together to do that yet, just as we were not allowed to be with her in the hospital because of the pandemic.
Thinking of this loss, I wonder, is it possible to carry matter as rocks do? To accumulate minerals? To reveal heat and pressure and deformation; to contain visible histories? To harden—to crystalize or fossilize—and then gently erode.
Or, like a severed branch, to hold the evidence of rootedness; to limb a phantom? To be made of cells built by light and darkened by lightning, and to grow barkless rings that mark, protect, encircle.
Stick
for Winnie
1926 – 2020
Rachel Linn holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Washington, where she received the Eugene Van Buren Prize for her thesis project. She has a collection of linked stories paired with pop-up illustrations forthcoming from Meekling Press and her writing and drawings have appeared in Calyx, Phoebe, Rivet, the St. Louis Metro Arts in Transit program, and elsewhere. She is currently on the planning board of the St. Louis Small Press Expo.