Copyright 2012 by Leah Cutter
This version published by Knotted Road Press
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She looked as we all did, slightly pale with her own slight glow, wearing the clothes she'd been buried in: a three-quarter sleeve hand-knit white sweater over what must have been an eye-searing tropical print dress, pearls the size of jawbreakers strung tightly around her ample neck, and cheap white sandals that wouldn't have lasted a week if she'd been living.
Because she was a ghost, none of her clothes moved or grew old. When she sat down in the guest chair in my office, her hands smoothed her skirt out of habit, not because if had climbed up.
So it wasn't her clothes that made her different. Or her looks: A Hispanic woman in her late 50s, with salt and pepper curls, hard features, stubbornly fat, and perpetually tired.