2003-05-07 || 11:02 a.m.

|| our ghosts at the house on the corner ||

we haunt this house: there was a window in the living room of the brick house that was always open. when meow meow lived there she would test her cat boundaries by perching as far on the ledge as she could without falling out. ivy and other viney plants took over the space between the house wall and fence, and tendrils would make their creeping way inside, keeping close to the oak moulding so as not to be detected against hopelessly turquoise paint. ben used to press his pants in his underwear (which was the underwear you'd imagine a 1950's dad to wear: undershirt, boxer shorts, black holey socks. as a ghost he wears sock garters and smokes a pipe, although in the living sense the socks were mismatched and he was smoking camels) on a rickety ironing board in front of the television, either watching recorded episodes of the simpsons or walker texas ranger or singing along to joy division. his skin smelled of whiskey and aftershave, and his hair was perpetually wet and combed in the way as to leave tiny teeth rows across his head. bryan used to read books by woody allen and type up stories for hours in his room, which when haunted is the color of slept in white t-shirts and cigarette smoke. michael made elaborate pasta dishes and espresso drinks in the kitchen, letting scraps and sauce collect in the crevice between stove and wall that was to be later excavated with a putty knife partly out of curiosity and partly out of a passive sense of cleanliness. as a ghost he drifts from room to room in his peto seed trucker hat and 'your neighborhood junk dealer' sports coat, swinging a spatula and shuffling his feet in his old man moccasins.

my ghost sings in the shower and falls asleep before 10:30. she sits crosslegged against the couch and doesn't move much so that she can sit with the boy ghosts while they take part in rituals involving cigarettes and trivia and walker texas ranger and pills. she wears the same sweater every day and calls for the cat from empty rooms. if i stop at the house on my way home today i can look in through the window that is always open and catch her, briefly, whipping around the corner and vanishing in the dim hallway.

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