Most days, when Mrs. Wigglebottom and I walk by the run down house two in from the corner, there’s a loud knock at the window and a hand waves furiously.
I wave back.
The other day, there was no knock, but after we’d gotten a house away, an old man came running out, “Hey, pretty lady, good morning.”
“Hey,” I said, “Isn’t it beautiful out? How are you doing?”
He stretched his hands out and looked up at the sky.
“I’m alive.” He said happily.
Now, for two days, all I can think about is the ghosts of the Civil War who stole my fucking can opener. I mean, what if one of them was to start hanging out in the yard of one of my neighbors, waving at Mrs. Wigglebottom and I every time we walked by?
I’d never have any reason to suspect he was a ghost.
“I’m alive,” the old man in the run down house said happily. But is he?