I walked through the house sidestepping the imagined dotted outlines of our furniture: the paintings, the vases, the lamps, Papá’s books. I visited each bedroom and traveled up and down the stairs. The air around the ghost objects felt charged and solid. Space held in place compact over ghost tables, chairs, and bed frames. In the dining room, the carpet dipped in creamy light circles where the table legs used to be. That was how I knew where the ghost table was, the sofa chairs, the glass cabinet.
