When grief is not always such a spectacle.

With the planchette facing opposite me, I closed my eyes and listened to her breathing out questions. The planchette scraped dryly across the board as others in the room mumbled observances or denials or whatever else.

If you’re there … I know you’re there … come talk to me. All you have to do is spell the right words … or the wrong ones. Our hands are on the board.

You left your wings in the foyer. The feathers have begun to wilt.

If I’d had your grace, your patience, even your guile.

I guess it’s really an interesting thing.

They walked down the street, seeing nothing important, finding little to look at.

Anatomically correct ghosts.

We hopped the fence into the backyard of the neighbors’ place. The whole yard was silent. No breeze stirred the sheets, pants, dried water lilies, shirts and undergarments hanging from the clothesline. The sliding glass door on the back porch was never locked and we stole into the darkness of the empty house and slid the glass door closed behind us, latching it. The neighbors were out at the lake for the rest of the weekend. Their house was silent, still. Dust had already begun to collect on the coffee table. I took you to the master bedroom and we went through the parents’ drawers. In the other rooms we sifted through the closets, pulled up the carpeting in the corners. In the hall we unscrewed the air-conditioning vents and shined a flashlight down the hollow aluminum tubes, whispering into the vents to hear our voices echo. In the attic we found old boxes of holiday ornaments and even a diary.

Think about how much life has changed since the death of your mother.