We burned the photos today, in a big pile out back. It wasn’t much like burning leaves. Smelled awful.
We’ve tried other things, naturally. Salt across the thresholds. Dreamcatchers in the windows. We’ve tried to move, but the house won’t sell.
Tonight, Robby will lie on his mattress in my room. Lise will be on the cot. None of us will sleep, because as soon as we cross into that liminal half-drowsing state, she will come. It’s not her death’s-head, nor even the chill touch as she drains off our life to sustain herself.
It’s the tears we can’t take.
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