Ouija Knocks Back
The first night the board came out, the house was a jar with its lid twisted loose.
We’d eaten cereal on the couch because Mom couldn’t bring herself to dirty a pan, then washed the bowls while our feet slid on the linoleum where the dishwasher had once dripped. Dad would have fixed the leak without YouTube, without a manual, just a wrench and that chuckle that warmed the kitchen more than steam. The month after the funeral, the maintenance man replaced the gasket and offered condolences like a coupon. The leak stopped, but the kitchen was still cold.
