The Weight of Unattached Grief

The coastal road breathes salt and diesel smoke, the sky a bruise of violet and grey. I unfold the map; it is thin rice paper folded into the shape of a mockingbird. The weight of the grief sits behind my ribs, a smooth, river stone I cannot throw anywhere. The ceiling over the pickup truck is wet. Small, perfect flakes of snow accumulate there, drifting down in slow, deliberate sheets. I trace the latitude line with my thumb, the ink smelling faintly of cinnamon. A car passes, its muffler sound muffled by the dense, damp air. The bird map pulls taut between my fingers.