They say the story’s too strange to believe.
No way it can be true. But aren’t we born for this—
to make room for impossibilities? To live at
the porous border between known and unknown,
where ghosts and spirits may gather and speak?
Aren’t we like grandmothers holding open the door
for mysteries, those breathless children running in
from the yard to cool themselves in the shade
of our breasts? We catch the door behind them
before it bangs shut, ease it back into place between
ourselves and infinity, the light and shadows
of other worlds passing through the wire screen.

Play notes: I've had too many strange experiences and heard too many stories not to believe in forms of energy we call "ghost" or "spirit" or "ancestor." How about you?