“I told you to watch those dandelions,” my father said.
We stood in my backyard. The sky was starting to streak with wands of orange and red.
My father floated over my weed-ridden yard.
“The only thing you can do is nuke this grass with glyphosate,” he said. “It’s the only way.”
“Charles, we’re back home and the first thing you can talk about is that silly grass?” my mother said.
“Bo, you look like a man that knows how to do things right,” my father said, whispering some instructions to him.
“Got it, sir," Bo said.
“Charles!” my mother shouted. “Leave that grass alone. Don’t you know we got a great-grandbaby in the house?”
Malcolm. My parents knew about him. The dead knew almost everything. Reality was matter-of-fact for them. This supernatural rule shouldn’t have surprised me, but
