Oregon coast, somewhere north of center, and a railroad cuts into town. Pondweeds, yellow grass, dandelions sprout beside metal and wood that lie bolted in loose gravel. An offering before that one beach house. Pitched roof. A lone third-floor window, round and the only one not boarded up. Chipping blue paint, and ivy braiding up beams softened by rain and salt winds. Termites, the only heartbeat left. Outside a convenience shop, I wait for pa to be handed a receipt: 5 water bottles, Doritos chips, 4 dry turkey sandwiches, novelty socks for us kids. I got one sister on a mechanical yellow pony, slowly gyrating, as her knees hit the handlebars. The other is counting quarters beside sliding doors, hoping for a pink gumball. That one sun-bleached house sits a railroad and half-a- parking-lot away. No Trespassing in bright red serif font sticks to the front door. A beige seagull lands on the roof’s spine, ignoring the warning, and I imagine hornets in the rafters. As the sun droops lower, a misty gold brushes against mossy tiles. That house grows bigger now; its shadow
stretching, crawling closer to mine. Like a monster’s arm snaking up a bed post. Ma doesn’t notice the nearing ghost. Her hands pick up candy wrappers and chip bags off the sedan’s floor, even as the air thumps with my pulse. I tug my jacket closer. I clutch loose change tighter because I hear it: wind inside an empty house. Left-behind faces, once gently framed and nailed into the wallpaper, stare at swirling dust. So I throw my arm back, chuck quarters at wooden bones to keep that hollow skeleton back.
            All that’s left of this once beach home.