“Her momma’s in there,” airport security guy says of the shoebox. He’s an old bull of a man, hands her to the whippersnap. He gives me a soft look. “We have to put her through the x-ray again,” he says. “Sorry for your loss. Gotta make sure she’s not a weapon.” Momma Bean would appreciate being considered a bomb. I watch them open her up, place a piece of metal mesh on top of her ashes. She’s all there, all fifty percent of her that Kristi and I split even stevens. Where do you want to be buried? I’d asked her just hours before she slipped into a coma. I was hoping she’d say here, the Idaho Batholith, 195 miles from Floyd’s grave. “I don’t,” she said, eyes furious. My California girls, Sofia, Lily, they’ve been with me through it all, in the form of little egg drop soups in my womb, and they were there yesterday when we hunted Floyd’s grave in the Caldwell graveyard. I’ve not been back since we buried him, cursed him again for how he was out riding fences a whole life long. Floyd, if you want a piece of her, lead me, I said aloud and there he was, right under our feet. I knelt, opened her box, took a pinch of white dust and pushed her into the earth, wondered what I’m offering up: her thigh, her rib, her Appaloosa brown eye?