More Tom
A late afternoon doze in my reclining chair bursts like a bubble at the sound of Tom's footstep on my plywood wheelchair ramp...a low thump as he quietly makes his way to my front door to hang the day's mail from a plastic Safeway bag, straighten the doormat and water the zinnias...itself a bubble, this thought, for he is dead. And whether it was actually heard or imagined, this treading, that question slightly disturbs me.
It is the matter of haunting. The dead being where they shouldn't. Of Read more [...]