This is how we did it. You conned the yacht club launch driver to ferry us out to the island. I want my son to see this tiny world, you said, meaning the ancient stone walls and the bleak Civil War ghosts that haunt the dim and dusty catacombs. Inside the powder magazine, where gunpowder for battles never fought was once stockpiled, he stuck a flashlight in his face, like the Blair Witch frighteners. I had never noticed how brown his eyes were. His mother’s eyes. My eyes. We’re the brown eye club. We wander back out in the day, blinking in the dense heatwave. What do you want to see next?

Hole in the wall, prison cell.  The ancient residue of lime whitewash, the chill desolation of jailhouse stone. Touch the wall. You can almost hear them weeping.

Ascending a dark stone spiral to the gunnery pallisades, the ghost  of you that’s been a prisoner decides to show her legs.

Tunnel of Love. Mother and son return to the light. The boat will return soon, back to the land of the living, salt spray, fish and chips, a flying trip to the bus station. Goodbye island. Goodbye ghosts.