My mother used to tell ghost stories.
Not scary stories, per se, but stories about ghosts.
She would tell tales, some tall, some enormous, of seeing deceased family members and making amends for slights, problems, and trials or tribulations.
I wondered at them, as a child, all wide eyes and impossible hope. If we could make amends with the dead, then what else could be possible? If the dead could speak to us, even, tell us of the great beyond, then all of this would mean something.
She has been gone a year today, and a part of me, not for the first time, wonders why she has not come to see me.
But I think I know.
I think I know.
The Postmodern Bluestocking 