My father's ghost hates cats on kitchen counters, I think because they make him sneeze. My father's ghost hates cabinet doors left open in distraction, and things not in their place. My father's ghost hates children. He whispers "Velcro them to the ceiling." My mother wonders why I never had my own, but maybe not. My father's ghost loves lists of many colors. I toss them in the trash before

I become my father's ghost.

Silence is the breath of my lungs, an accordion that can't sing, nose seeping fog, dissolving into sunlight. Silence is a glowing orb growing thick and sweet to the taste, melting my senses. Silence is the empty space between two pillows, the dent in the mattress where you used to be. Silence is my fingers reaching for yours, fingers you can't see, can't hear, can't touch.