They tell you to hold your breath when passing a graveyard. They say if you don't a ghost can trace the afterthought of your exhalation into your mind and possess you and force you to live your life by their rules. Yea, but. The only graveyard I pass is off the freeway. Posession starts at 75mph — minimum.

And if there are ghosts going 75, old sod-house grandmas rushing after my morning commute trying to make up for their sub-six-foot burial, little blue-green flames trailing from prairie skirts igniting the wildflower soft shoulder, wailing like a Wal-Mart customer scorned, swerving through traffic oblivious to turn signals or what happened in Vietnam, bypassing my fast food napkins in their eagerness to possess me?

Well.

I would welcome them as a friend, for surely we’ve met before.