The day after Halloween, it rained. paper ghosts hung from tree limbs, got soggy and fell into the collected piles of leaves on the ground.
I was walking slowly, fresh paint was collecting into puddles on the concrete. I am learning to tell this story so that the twists are my own: ghosting makes rain; makes these new rituals lose their unfortunate legacies, rain washes everything back to its origins.
I can take this kind of sadness and carry it in my pocket until it is shiny and polished, looking like new silver, looking like something somebody might want.