When the Dead Sing at Noon

Diana, I heard them again today.

The dead, singing at noon.

You know how it is when something catches you off guard?

I was just walking past the old marina, the one where my grandfather used to mend nets, and there they were.

Voices rising with the heat shimmer off the pavement. Not ghostly, exactly.

More like... remember when you'd hear your mother humming in the kitchen and couldn't quite place the tune?

Like that, but sadder. They sang about stupid things.

The way rope feels when it's been salted by years of tide.

My neighbor Frank's laugh, God, he used to laugh like a seal barking, before the stroke stole his punctuation.

Someone's half-remembered hymn that kept circling back on itself.

I couldn't shake it. Felt it sitting heavy in my chest, right where worry lives.

So here I am, writing to you like some ancient sailor's wife.

You've always been good at this stuff, watching over the lost ones, the lovers, the people who don't quite fit anywhere.

Your face has that forest-quiet about it.

Patient. Like you've been expecting this letter.

Look, I'm leaving things for you.

Small offerings on the windowsill: a coin worn smooth from too many pockets, a photo of someone who forgot the way home, a sentence I've been trying to finish for years.

Maybe you can do something with them.

Transform them the way moonlight transforms everything it touches.

Here's what I need to know: Why noon?

Why do the dead pick the brightest hour to remember their lives?

Is it defiance? Homesickness? Help me set down their song gently, Diana.

Like good china. So it doesn't shatter into a thousand smaller griefs.

Send me a sign, anything, so I know how to live with their music without drowning in it.