The Unburied Ghost

Delia

Father had a laugh I remember better than his face. That feels a little like a betrayal.

Faces fade. Smells don’t. I remember his cologne, too.

And voices don’t. Maybe because the dead live in sound before they become photographs.

Isabel says grief is useful for a little while, then indulgent.

Mother doesn’t say anything when Isabel says things like that. Sometimes, though, when we pass in the hall, her fingers brush mine.

It’s never an accident.

But it’s never enough.