At sunrise, I watch my father rest both hands on the top of his shovel and stare past the wash. He’s forgotten neighbors’ names, sometimes mine. But this morning he remembers exactly what the three saguaros become in first light. Crosses, he says. Then he adds, ghosts, so softly I almost miss it. Their shadows stretch down the slope toward us. He squints as if he can see someone coming. I stand beside him in the dirt, afraid to speak. Afraid he’ll call me by my sister’s name again. Afraid he won’t. By daylight, the three crosses are only cactus.
KC Courtland makes her home in Northern California, where she works as a substitute teacher and spends the rest of her time lost in stories. www.kccourtland.com