They scrabble and we call them mice. They steal one sock out of the dryer every week or so just to drive us crazy. They drop a bunch of ants that had been roaming among their rib bones on the counter to swarm a bit of spaghetti glued to the granite. They try on our hats. I find a white straw hat striped with blue on the floor of the closet and hear a whisper, not your style, but only Ribbon the cat is sitting on the bed. She was meowing, I decide, or yawning. They rearrange the medicine in the cabinet so that my husband takes Vitamin C instead of D and acetominophen instead of melatonin. The fan whirs, but when he tries to turn it off, it is off. They’re laughing, I whisper, finally a believer in our ghosts, as we pull the blankets up. They put cinnamon into the jar of cumin and cumin into the cinnamon jar. My book group did not love the cumin rolls. My husband kind of did. They mopped the floor after he broke his ankle. We left a thank you note. They arranged my books by color. Bah said the note I left. We were beginning to like them. We left them flowers. A poem by Marie Howe. A cartoon that made us both laugh. Notes about their night-time activities. Then they were gone. Our floors were dull. Our socks matched. Ribbon moped among the lilies, digging a cool spot in the dirt. So like the dead to up and disappear just when we loved them most.