more ghosts and weather

Hurricane Number 4

The rain blows sideways under the streetlamps: dash of yellow, orange. The streetlights wobble dramatically and TV antennae drape themselves over cars, then sigh and move on.    I have been dreaming of my dead horse lately, just the last few minutes, when he was lying on the ground, blinking slowly, my mother hugging herself and weeping. Bits of trees and signs blow about. Once I am outside, the rain is not so hard, almost like nothing.

I suck in my cheeks, make my eyes big, turn my hands into half-fists, level, as if they’re holding an iron bar in front of me.  I point the top of my body down, pull my eyebrows up.   Some people call this body language.  My mother calls it “having a spaz”. It means: up and down, roller coaster.

I’m trying to write another story that is not a ghost story, and that’s how you appear, in your black jeans and black tank top, smiling snidely, surrounded by small green bushes, like some sort of travel photo found on the sidewalk.

Did someone lose this? Waving my hand.  Is that what I’m trying to do?

Say you’re sorry.

I am so, so sorry.

You don’t have to be so sorry, just sorry.

I wake up my husband and ask him to stand out in the rain with me.  He says, Babe, why would you want to do that?

Here is the clunk of something hitting the skylight.  Here is my hand, wet, unsure of its purpose. Here is the bracelet you left on the bench. Here is the water bubbling down our steps. Here is the front door, swollen, unable to close.

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