In the Air, To El Paso For My Grandfather's Funeral

Fir-treed mountains extend below me, wrinkled raisins clustered in clumpy desert oatmeal. I know that you like oatmeal. You made it once, on your own, on the phone with me, much closer than we are now. The water boiled quickly; you sister nagged when it didn’t look perfect, like when your mother makes it. I think it’s sweet that she cooks breakfast for you, still: oatmeal and blueberry pancakes. I’m thinking of you right now, flying over mountains that remind me of raisins, remind me of oatmeal, remind me of you.