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My Mother Was Never A Strict Woman

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My mother was never a strict woman. She kept rules to a minimum of one. It was short, simple, and easy to follow: don’t go into the woods at Grammie’s house. I would ask why, and she would tell me that sometimes people who went in didn’t come out. She said this the way a mother would explain where all the birds went during winter, or why the green left the trees in fall. It wasn’t an ominous warning, it was just a fact. Sometimes people who go into Grammie’s woods don’t come back out. When I asked why, she always found a way to change the subject. Sometimes I think the universe helped her, by ringing the phone in the nick of time or sending someone to our door to draw her attention for a few hours. She didn’t need too many diversions – I only asked about once or twice. By the time I left Grammie’s house for the first time, I knew why. “Jesus,” Felicity grumbles, pushing the toe of her Vans into a soft spot in the wood of our bedroom. It groans deeply under the pressure, and sighs when she releases it. “This place should be condemned or something.” I grin. “Creaks don’t condemn a house.” “What about that?” She points at a dark patch in the ceiling. “It looks like someone died in the attic and literally bled through the floor.” “Ooo, maybe we’ll see a ghost,” I say, shrugging my jacket off in trade for a thick sweater from my suitcase. I forgot how cold this house can get in winter. I remember once when I was little I found a dead bird in the backyard with its

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