My daughter shuffles into the hallway, rubbing her eyes with
her fists, her hair tossed and tangled. “The ghost,” she mutters, and shuffles
blindly back, knowing I’ll follow.
She knows it’s not a ghost. She knows it’s a robe. But at
night, when it’s dark, and she’s alone, it doesn’t matter what she knows.
I’ll take her black robe off the hook on the wall and lay it
on the floor, and she’ll roll over and go back to sleep.
I hope her ghosts will always be so simply set aside.
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