"Regarding Ghosts" by Sean Bishop

We were talking about haunting:how some of us are, and some of us aren't.I said the dark clots of vapor squatting overhead“seem a little thick for this hour, and this time of year,”which really set the mood, I thought.But Hannah said we should distinguishbetween our subject and everyday fear: one hangslike a musty coat on its peg, while the otherbreaks all the breakable dishes.Then Eric made a joke about Tupperware.He said he wished the grief-beaten psyche,like a polyethylene-injected bowl, could be backed overrepeatedly by a station wagon without tearing,which to my mind betrayed a deep-set skepticismtoward the supernatural, which I resented.This is when Hannah wondered at the scientific basisfor the spectral preference for night over day,launching a big litany of roadside sneakers,empty boats drifting across the lake,and the candles on the orphan's birthday cakethat won't blow out, or will not light, depending.The vote came in for no such thing.The assembled parties leftone by one through the fog.By the magnolia, my father,who is dead, stood smiling.