They keep skeletons in closets. Shameful things people need to hide from
daylight. Keep them from conversation
and people can go back to work, take walks, live their lives. Just so long as the skeletons stay where
they’re put.
Chris looked at the closet he couldn’t open. His hands have passed through everything he’s
tried to touch since the accident. Now
that he’s dead, knocked out of the corporeal world through the windshield of
his father’s car long ago, he must wait for living hands to open the closet
doors and switch on the light to see what was inside.
To confirm what was inside.
How long had his parents kept his bedroom undisturbed? Years were hard for him to count. His mother didn’t limp anymore. The scars across his father’s face had faded.
And his toys now likely sat in unlabeled boxes on the floor
of the closet.
