The snow lay thick that winter morn when Theo snuck outside —
His mom was sick, and he had sworn to never leave her side.
But something in that chilly air had called his name for weeks.
A shimmering, not fully there, brought blood into his cheeks.
“Who’s there?” he cried, in voice as hoarse as dust, from years indoors;
(His ma’d been comatose, of course, since Carter followed Ford.)
“It’s me,” he heard it said — by whom? Impossible to tell!
“Your mother! I’ve been dead since June!” (That would explain the smell.)