My Dead Friendsby Marie Howe

I have begun, when I’m weary and can’t decide an answer to a bewildering question

to ask my dead friends for their opinion and the answer is often immediate and clear.

Should I take the job? Move to the city? Should I try to conceive a child in my middle age?

They stand in unison shaking their heads and smiling—whatever leads to joy, they always answer,

to more life and less worry. I look into the vase where Billy’s ashes were – it’s green in there, a green vase,

and I ask Billy if I should return the difficult phone call, and he says, yes. Billy’s already gone through the frightening door,

whatever he says, I’ll do.

01 NPR_ 10-20-2011 Fresh Air

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