Indian Ghost Song Comments

Awake. Shake dreams from your hair, my pretty child, my sweet one, the boy hears in his head. He is half asleep. He rolls over trying to find comfort in this cramped automobile. There is none. No space, he thinks to himself, and it is as if time is an illusion. He looks out the window, a vast radiant beach and a cool, jeweled moon; it is almost dawn. They are moving southeast in a car along an old desert road. Inside the car is a mother, a father, a grandmother and grandfather, and a small boy. The boy in the backseat of the car cannot be more than four, maybe six at the most. The car is really cramped, and, truth be told, the grandma smells like cough drops and talcum powder. The small boy has normal brown hair, normal brown eyes, yet he knows he is not normal. He can feel things others can’t, or see things others won’t; he’s not sure which. The boy remembers watching television with his mother. His mother had asked him a question about the show that was playing on the screen. He can’t remember the question.

“The guy in the purple shirt, ” the boy answered.
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