My grandmother awoke one night with the sense of someone sitting at the foot of her bed, but no one was there. The next day, a phone call: her aunt had passed. My grandmother would wait in a candle-lit room for her dead father to appear in a mirror. She said that a baby died in her house, years before she bought the place. Someone bumped into a stroller, and it crashed down a flight of stairs. I’ve heard it crying, a cigarette bounced between her lips. Your grandfather was drunk on the couch, watching Rockford Files, but I heard it. She asked if I wanted to spend the night.
Joshua Michael Stewart
Pops: A Life of Louis Armstrong