The Ghosts who Raised Me

I have no memory of my mother leaving me by my grandfather's headstone when I was four days old.

I can only believe the stories they tell me – whispered glimmers of my history among the living.

I don't remember which of them it was who fed me and taught me to walk and talk.

My first memory is of a ghost named Hester, who became not only my friend, but also like a sister. She had nothing better to do. She was dead. We spent our days chasing each other through the gravestones in the cemetery whe...