You told me you saw your first ghost at 7;
your grandfather’s shadow
whispered on the wall,
on the evening he forgot to inhale –
Eyes wide with worship,
as I watched steam coil over your espresso;
for this steam was surely a ghost, too.
After all of our visits,
I turn off the lights,
sit alone for hours,
eyes shut so tight it wrinkles my nose,
that when I open them,
I might make a friend with death.
I walk through the old-growth,
scouring for fallen twigs,
matter – to craft a wand
crowned with the crystal
I had secretly borrowed from your collection –
just to bring back the mice
my cat leaves dead on my carpet.
I have yet to resurrect,
even a spider.
I’ve sat with you,
my palms extended
in candle-lit corners of this world,
always studying your face
so intently – for any reason to doubt you;
but I have found no flaws.
About the Author
Savi Hanning-Brown is a student at Selkirk College