WHEN I’M DEAD I’ll haunt the earth toting a puffy beige purse. Gampy will be wearing a chapeau, his hands jangling change in his pockets. We’ll be stuck in the bottom corner of an old photograph, cropped below our knees, frozen in permanent poses, tinier than two leprechauns.
Who knows where or when we’ll turn up. You might find us buried in a canister of family keepsakes, crusted to a sheet of plastic in a half-forgotten album or tucked into the frame of a mirror, glossy and two-dimensional, a miniature Grand Canyon stretched timelessly behind us, golden in the Arizona skylight. You won’t be able to see them, but I’ll be wearing sensible shoes.