They described my father sharpening his ax and said, "You're about to be..." they paused, "dismembered?"

I pour another glass of wine and drink it. I pour another. I tell Bonnie and Molly, our guides to the ghost world, please tell me more. I smirk and say, "No, really, this is fascinating."

Then they say, "Your father is very happy now. He's happier now than he ever was in his life on earth."

Oh, isn't this always the case. A little scrap of comfort for the bereaved. Bonnie and Molly are just the same sort who have preyed on grieving people throughout history. At best, they're misguided, deluded fools. At worst, manipulative monsters.

What I don't tell them is, when I was 4 years old I slipped a metal washer around my finger. It was too tight to remove, and I waited until my finger was swollen and purple before I asked my father for help. We'd always been told not to put rubber bands or anything tight around our fingers or we'd get gangrene and those bits would rot and fall off. My dad said we'd have to cut the finger off, and spent the afternoon washing my hand and sharpening the ax. The whole time, he also lectured me about taking responsibility for my own actions. He said that if I was going to do stupid things, I should be ready to pay the price.

That whole afternoon, I listened. There was no drama, no tears or panic. In my 4-year-old mind, my father was doing me a favor. It would hurt, chopping off my fat, purple finger, but it would be better than the weeks of letting it rot.

I knelt beside the chopping block, where I'd seen so many chickens meet a similar fate, and put out my hand. If anything, I was wildly grateful for my father's help, and resolved never to blame other people for stupid things I'd done.

My father swung the ax, and of course he missed. We went inside, and he used soap and water to remove the washer.