Sep 24, 2022
My Dead Friends
I have begun, when I’m weary and can’t decide an answer to a bewildering question
to ask my dead friends for their opinion and the answer is often immediate and clear.
Should I take the job? Move to the city? Should I try to conceive a child in my middle age?
They stand in unison shaking their heads and smiling—whatever leads to joy, they always answer,
to more life and less worry. I look into the vase where Billy’s ashes were — it’s green in there, a green vase,
and I ask Billy if I should return the difficult phone call, and he says, yes. Billy’s already gone through the frightening door,
whatever he says I’ll do.
--Marie Howe
