Kirsten Jacobson: The Dead Are All Around Us

“Mommy. Mommy!” My daughter’s face is pale in the moonlight.

“What, sweetheart?”

“The dead are all around us,” she whispers urgently.  “I hear them playing games.”

“Oh.” My heart sinks.

“But we’re not dead.  Can I sleep with you?”

I lift the quilt and she scrambles in beside me.

“Good night, Mommy.”

Crying quietly, I watch the shadows move about the room, thinking that five is too young to know these things.  The slap of cards and clattering of rolling dice keep me awake till morning.


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