This Nice Ghost Can Make All My Decisions
Disappearing Act
My father gathers the corners of the silk handkerchief; his hands smell of cloying wort from brewing. The colors are shifting, and where was the blue patch and tear I mended those years ago? Every time he folds the fabric it grows larger. Soon the handkerchief folds into a door. All the years of origami prepared him for this moment. He pulls the silk behind him. We are left with nothing but space.
How the Ghost Got In
It got in through the open window. On early morning shafts of light. In the mourning dove’s song. Up the copper pipes and through the floorboards, carried in water particles from the radiator’s steam. In my dreams. In my husband’s dreams; my daughter’s dreams. It came through the front door— it brought baggage and gifts, secrets and stories. It came in the light of day and under cover of night. Sometimes quietly, sometimes with the clanging of backed up plumbing or the harmony of lullaby. Sometimes with a chill, sometimes with a fever. It arrived. And it arrived. It arrived again, and it kept on arriving.
The Ghost Is Making Decisions
I realize the ghost is making decisions for me, and it is time to tell my husband. Somehow this confession gives the ghost strength. It has good intentions, I tell my husband, sometimes. We are riding the subway, and I watch the buildings outside the window blur together. At times I see people inside, a family tableau; more often the shiny body of the train reflected. Do you love it? My husband asks. If he is jealous, it doesn’t show. I don’t know how to answer. A pack of seagulls lands on the subway struts at Broadway Junction, all touching down, wings extended for balance and drag, simultaneously. I want to be safe. Is this making me unsafe? I have to admit that safety is as real as I imagine it is.