People think the dead can’t talk… The day of my funeral traveling miles and to reach what resembled home. Brick house shuttered windows daring red door. I was almost certain it mines but a space devoid bodies laughter. Scrambling through every room vacant found way basement. Hearing voices in distance familiar yet unrecognizable. Panicking knock lamp off its stand footsteps getting closer louder. see grandson call his name ecstatically “Macari” he turned wave with smile. heard. Noticed