the living dead

The three of us (me and the girls) are taking a bath with candle light. The steam creates this eerie and wonderful setting. And now we are hearing the most beautiful account of who the middle sister is (my stillborn). My youngest say she saw her the other day. My oldest listens with wide eyes. “She had long hair, to the floor.” She now has our attention so she really goes all out. “And white skin. And glittery purple high heels. And we were having tea.” So we ask her a hundred questions, hungry to know every detail, hanging on her every word. “Is her hair curly or straight? Is she shy or not? Where did she go when you were done playing?” For that moment there exists no possibility whatsoever that she is not alive.