Ghost Hand | Moses Lake, WA | March 2020
A voodoo practitioner in New Orleans once told me that spirits shed parts as they fade from the physical realm. I imagined ears and hands and buttocks as detached, transparent wisps blowing across parking lots. “Ectoplasm needn’t take human form,” she said. “Look for vapors in dark corners of empty rooms. There’s your dearly departed.” Now the virus reshaping our lives has produced a new type of litter — discarded vinyl gloves and wadded sanitizer wipes — that appears as castoff pieces of the specter we dread. OK, that’s grim. Instead, let’s continue to our take cues from laughter and sunlight, the antidotes to being spooked.