There are too many leaves. Jenna and I wrestle with the wind to get them into bags. Then I crawl into a bed, picking up each individual leaf with pincer-like fingers, because I am driven to. Jenna says, “I came back home from Minnesota because my son was murdered.” I stay under a large fern for a moment, surface and say, “Oh my god, I am so sorry. That is so, so sad.” I look at her smoking-ruined face and can't imagine the pain she is in. So I don't. There is no room. I go back under the fern.
Jill Pabich lives in Salem, Massachusetts, where she photographs ghosts and then tries to write about them. Instagram, magical realism paintings: @jill_pabich Instagram, ghost photography: @jillpabichphotography