She speaks with the dead man. She just sits there on the wooden bench, and the people watch. She says the dead man loves her. People think she’s crazy for thinking a dead man is capable of loving her.



She listens to the dead man. She wraps her worn and tired hands around the beads she says he left to her. She says the dead man took a bullet in the chest and a knife in the back for her. People think she’s crazy because they don’t see why someone would die for her.



She weeps for the dead man. She sobs into her wise old hands and tears fall onto the pages of the book he wrote. She says the dead man teaches her even since he’s passed away. People think she’s crazy because they didn’t know the dead man.



I didn’t know the dead man, yet I still speak to the dead man. At times I’m not sure why, because he doesn’t answer me. He seams to have left me alone and afraid at times I wish he hadn’t. The woman who speaks to the dead man says he’s always there, and never leaves our sides. I think she’s crazy because she believes in the dead man, while I still want to believe.