Nana had been dead four years. It had been three and a half years since my summer in Ghana, a month of bad dreams. In that time, I had promised myself I wouldn’t ever burden her, that all she would ever get from me was goodness and peace, calm and respect, but still, I said, “Sometimes I talk to Nana when I can’t sleep.”

She sat down on the couch, and I watched her face intently, worried that I’d said too much, that I’d broken our little code, my private promise.

“Oh, I talk to Nana too,” she said. “All the time. All the time.”

I could feel the tears start to well up in my eyes. I asked, “Does he talk back?”

My mother closed her eyes and leaned back into the couch, letting the cushions absorb her. “Yes, I think so.”