Mom gets butterflies in her stomach before she goes to the post office. The ghosts were you, at 8, declining to go on a playdate because you were afraid I wouldn’t have anyone to play with you, at 16, threatening to hit the boy who broke my heart with your car you, at 22, telling me we were soulmates with tears in your eyes at the Molly Wee pub the ghosts were you, you, you, you with pastel sheets over your head, cutouts for your big Bambi eyes. The dots were moments I still felt some semblance of myself in a world without you in it, they were anyone and anything that could drain me of all of my energy and attention, they were being able to feel light enough to giggle, they were attempting to Irish dance while waiting for my tea kettle to whistle. I was chasing dots with my mouth wide open, trying to outrun you. Perhaps the better metaphor is that my grief for you stalked me like those ghosts in Ms. She wants me to help her think of a way to befriend Sophie that doesn’t begin with: You remind me of my dead son and I would do anything to spend time with you. But then she saw her protruding clavicle and her thick top lip and her round doe eyes and she couldn’t unsee the physical resemblance. Her mannerisms are what initially drew Mom to her, what first reminded her of you. Her voice is low and quiet and when she gets flustered she holds her elbows close to her rib cage and her hands near her shoulders like an adorable T. She appears to be more at ease when she is behind the counter than when she is in front of it, exposed. Her hair is jet black and always pulled back into a low ponytail that nestles into the nape of her neck. Her body could be drawn using only straight lines, just like yours. Sophie works at the post office in Saanichton, British Columbia.* She is tall and sinewy with thin, bony shoulders.

* Name and location have been changed for privacy. In these moments I wished to be vacuumed whole. I wondered if there were claw marks on the floor from where you tried to stay as you felt your heart stop beating, or if you slid easily away like a clump of lint and dog hair into a Roomba. Sometimes I’d think about the scene Mom came upon when the locksmith finally got your apartment door open and feel as though my kneecaps were going to crumble into ash beneath me. This is not to say that I didn’t ever experience a sense of loss. I thought I could, like a rapacious vole, burrow myself into the branches of the quotidian and the bus of mourning would pass me by altogether. This was also my strategy for grieving you. In middle school, I would hide behind a giant oleander bush when it was time for the bus to leave for track and field meets and then, once it left without me, I’d walk to Panda Express and eat chow mein in blissful peace. Maria Zorn | Longreads | Ma| 3,373 words (12 minutes) Join Longreads and help us to support more writers.

Deep dreamer mrs pacman