Emily Dickinson wrote that it’s not just houses that are haunted but that the “brain has corridors.” Indeed. And mine are overflowing. The underworld of my mind—all those haunted corridors, however you want to describe it—contains shards of broken glass scattered all over the ground. I pick up a shard and describe what I see, then set it down. This story is jagged, could cut a deep wound. It isn’t a story I can tell with a thread and a needle, stitching in clean lines. It’s shards or nothing. 4.
