honey and death
I held the hand of my father's ghost. We walked a long stretch of blacktop. We crushed the orange and yellow leaves of October beneath our shoes. We carried a damaged scarecrow to the scarecrow repair shop up the road. But the shop was closed, when we arrived. We stood outside, watching the wind blow all the orange and yellow shards of tree glass across the blacktop. The air smelled like honey and death. "What's that sound?" I asked. "It sounds like radio static."
"It's just the wind," my father's ghost said. "Wind from another part of the world."
I squeezed his hand. It felt cold. I squeezed it harder, trying to reach the last bit of warmth fading from the lines and the shadows enclosing the empty space from which a life has fled.