“You gon’ say t’weren’t none of your doing, but I ain’t blind.”
“Mostly, Gran, you are.”
“Only to the living world.” Gnarled fingers flicked as she tatted lace, the motion so ingrained she did not need to see. “What you call your piece of art?”
“The Pulchritudinous Dream.”
“Dead Girls in the Swamp a better name.”
“I bought the dresses at auction,” I protested.
“Then why them three in the corner so mad at you?”
I didn’t want to see the girls, still dressed in the matted gowns I’d hung for my photo. They smiled – again – and came for me.
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