Ghost Story

My mom tells me the baby’s room is haunted.

The mobile above his crib starts by itself, she says.

Plays Old MacDonald over and over.

It’s a joyful spirit she assures me,

and smiles a secret smile.

Years ago, my parents would seek out ghosts.

Link hands with friends over Ouija boards or candles,

chant and plead into the dark living room.

And wait.

The glory of the evening was in that wait.

I’d watch from the hall,

sip stolen wine,

and soak in the silence—

a breathless grownup tension.

Sometimes I’d see shapes,

but it was always just a coat on a hook

or the dog

or a memory from a late movie.

Eventually my parents would gasp,

claim they made contact, had a message to deliver.

There’d be chatter, spilled drinks, or tears.

All night my mother would shine.

This is why I do not explain the mobile’s broken spring.

I love the brightness of my mother’s face,

she’s the radiant favorite child,

the chosen messenger of the happy dead.

Angela Howe-Decker