House Ghost

It was august of 2018. Six months since I had fallen on my face, breaking my nose and acquiring a concussion. Is a concussion something you acquire? Like a taste?

I had moved in with my dad, which I technically referred to as “staying with my dad,” but everything I owned was shoved into boxes in his garage. I was shoved into his spare bedroom, which technically was his guitar case storage room. I worked around the dusty leather shells by living out of a suitcase on the floor, not wanting to upset the carefully constructed Jenga tower he’d created with them, in between tours.

My grandma lived in the house too. She was getting older and needing extra care. I was also getting older and needing extra care in my own way. Really, I had no money and my head injury prevented me from working even a full shift at the pizza restaurant where I waited tables sometimes, when I could stand the light and sounds.

I had been humbled, to say the least. I needed to be humbled to change, because every other …