Ghosts move through the house, sitting on the kitchen table, on the arms of overstuffed chairs, looking at the blurbs on the backs of books left casually on side tables as if they still knew how to read. They have something more to say, but they have lost their ability to speak. I loan them my mouth. Their words almost fit what I say. They speak in the footnotes as unacknowledged experts to cite variations and caveats. Although no one has time to read their comments, their soft attention to others’ details reshape the shadows until memory begins to cling to their faces like stone veils, or muscles to bone. They no longer belong to the story they once were, anymore than I know the end of mine.
(April 16, 2025)
subtext 