Hard rain stains the pavement, the spilled ink of spring. The dead come alive nightly to fog my dreams: my mother in her blue bathrobe shedding fuzz, the shy girl from high school whose heart attacked her before leukemia could. They sit on my bed, unlatching demands from their packed baggage: Why didn’t you? Why won’t you? Brad Pitt says hello. In a bank. Goodbye, says the heart girl from high school. How do you want your money? You never. You shouldn’t. In fives or tens? Wake me up, Mother. I’m alive.