By 7 o'clock, the ghost is knocking at the window. We fasten the locks and hide the matches, but something still smells like sulfur, the catch of a hundred tiny sticks bursting into flame. When we were children, we'd watch the boats roll in, one by one. Troll the breakwater looking wreckage, splintered bow, busted stern. Turn over in our beds. eyes shut tight. My mother was made of smoke, every Virginia slim catching her dress on fire while she waved from the dock mouthing I love you. Come back. Sometimes we'd float for days and return starving to the kitchen where she would not recognize us for all the lake grass caught in our hair. The wateriness of our stare. Her ghost moving away from the house, while we cried I love you. Come back.