Adults

 “The stars always know,” Abuelita used to mumble to Camila in silent gaps between garlic being pressed with oregano.

When she lost her, Cami wheezed out a knot. That’s what it felt like--a knot of air, whistling out of her. Abuelita’s kettle. Sunday mornings.

After the funeral, Cami hunched her back, finally alone.

The blue-light of her phone broke her trance. It was a notification from her newest astrology app:

“Sit up straight.”

Alone in the yard. Suddenly not. I looked up: yellow, hungry eyes.

Wolf Dog!

Ancient impulse surged. I bolted, shrieking, through the alley. Behind me, humid breath rasped against his waiting teeth. Then at once --- WHAM!

The screen door crashed open. Da, who had been napping, leapt down the steps.

“GET OUTTA HERE!”

Plink! The pipe fell. The animal yipped and fled.

Lately, the days are quiet. There’s a measured rhythm in the hours that become weeks and the weeks that become months. It’s in this hushed world that we can either bow to boredom or discover a deeper meaning in life. Volunteer, call friends, check on elderly neighbors, leave kind notes for service workers and, along the way, perhaps find comfort and inner peace in the new routine of quarantine.

Grandpa Duke and his grandson George adored each other. When George visited, he followed Grandpa like a puppy. Duke would fix a loose hinge; his four-year-old grandson brought his toy tools. As George reached 10, he’d become an apprentice, handing the tools over while Grandpa instructed and fixed. Two years later, Grandma Ernestine called, “Boy, come here. This door handle is loose. “ Grandpa Duke remained relaxed reading the newspaper in his chair.

She didn't feel like she knew what she was doing. But, did any of the girls in the room? She had been trained to be a fearless, strong wrestler.

So had they.

She looked into the eyes of her opponent, and decided she was ready.

She breathed in the crowd. The whistle blew. And out came her instinct, technique, wit.

The next time she breathed, her hand was waved in the air, victorious.

Olive wiggles her toes and coos, watching her father wave the bottle.

"How plump our little pimento has become," he sings.

A groan comes down the corridor, upsetting Olive.

It comes again, heavier. He expects she'll need changing.

"Just a falling branch," he whispers, brushing Olive's hair. "Rotten. Couldn't support its fruit anymore."

She quiets.

"But we're safe now, sweetie."

He pours himself another glass from the bottle.

"We're safe."

Olive quiets, too.

I’m finding myself unsure how I feel about you when we make eye contact as we shop, or when I’m looking at you through the pick-up window. I’m shouting at the gas station attendant who keeps her distance, “Filler-up, Cash”. Doesn’t she trust me?

Waiting in anticipation for the day when we don’t need to wear our masks. When you see me, smile. Even with your mask on I can see it!

What have I done? There will be no forgiveness. How could I have so foolishly attempted this? Should I turn myself in, plead for mercy? Will it be considered murder? Some would think life itself had been extinguished through my ignorance. Ignorance is no excuse. In an instant so much that was held dear was gone forever. A confession could not be avoided. “Honey, I think I deleted your phone data.”

The lights came on as the bell hit. Quickly sliding down the brass pole, into boots and coat. The door rises and the rig rolls out. Smoke and the fire’s glow in the night sky. Dragging hose up three flights, darkening the fire. Then the smoke clears and you see. Three little ones and a mom. Gone before you left the firehouse, right? Another haunting image to carry in your mind for life.

“Your turn,” Ted declares.

“No,” Jim protests, “I did it last time.”

A huff precedes Jim’s move – an eight of spades. Ted smirks, laying down his ace. While they play, dragging out their War, investigators bustle outside.

“Oh, fine.”

Jim stands with translucent limbs. Floating by the windows, he gives a ghoulish moan that terrifies today’s visitors. They scatter as Ted chuckles. Jim frowns.

“Haunting houses just isn’t what it used to be.”