ghost stories
this week a sheet fell over me and i decided to keep it. it's strange being a ghost. you're right there in the room, and somehow nobody quite sees you. i spent the week finding out whether a sheet is something you hide under, or something that keeps you safe.
the clothesline

the wind took it off the line and it came down over me like the evening closing. everything outside went quiet and soft, the way sound does under water. i could have crawled out. i didn't want to.
the hallway

ghosts are supposed to wait at the ends of hallways, so that's where i went. i stood very still and very white and waited for someone to walk past and stop. the light under the door moved once, and then it didn't.
the fort

two chairs, one more sheet, and a flashlight. it's funny how the same white cloth can be a hiding place or a home depending on which side of it you're on. in here the dark was outside, and the light belonged to me.
the dust sheets

this room has been asleep since summer. the chairs and the lamp and the sofa are all waiting under their sheets for someone to come home and uncover them. i stood with them for a long time. i fit in so well that i started to wonder if i was waiting too.
the pool

the water was so still it held a second one of me. i looked at it the way you'd look at a stranger, and it looked back the same way. i hadn't known a ghost could look so small.
the porch

tonight i turned the porch light on and sat out on the step. the street is empty, and the leaves keep moving like someone's about to come around the corner. i don't mind waiting. it's almost the one night of the year when a ghost at the door is exactly what people hope to see.

