In Salem, Massachusetts, there is a courtyard dedicated to the women burned as witches. The grass never grows there. It is encircled by a low wall and lined by two dozen black marble benches, for these bodiless women to sit on, smooth their dresses, reflect, mourn. It looks like here. This shadowed grey courtyard tucked between two buildings in New York.

A tiny tornado of leaves and discarded wrappers heaves itself from the ground and twirls like a rustling skirt, like one of those women were watching here now. She brushes a hand along the back of a sparrow, making it titter.

But there are no ghosts to be seen here except the wisps of clouds in a candy-blue sky, the only sign that yesterday the earth was leveled by a wave from the heavens. The grey stones underfoot have dried now, puddles stolen by the sun that pokes its fingers through the leaves, speckling the ground but not enough to brighten this space. It should feel warmer here than it does.

The sparrow hops along the tiles and asks for scraps with a nervous twitch, expecting to be waved away. It is the color and shape of the fallen leaves around it, as though it were once one of them and one day sat up and came to life, sinewy green veins and serrated edges turning to bones and ruffled feathers. This is the life here, now, and in Salem. Dead things that don’t want to stay dead.

I bow my head as I leave. I can escape; we must show sympathy to those who can’t. Else they won’t let you go.

—

Happy Halloween. Wrote this in Creative Writing class yesterday for our walk-inspired ten minute free write. I was a witch this year, so Salem has been on my mind.

xx,
Meg