"This place used to give me the creeps," I said, wrapping myself in the sweater Mama made for me one lean winter thirty years ago. We'd found it in the attic yesterday after the funeral.
"There's no such thing as ghosts," Cora reiterated for the hundredth time that morning, wiping away tears.
“I know,” I lamented, picking Mama's long gray hairs out of the sweater. "I know."