Excerpt from This Angel on My Chest by Leslie Pietrzyk, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

It was that time of the early evening when the shadows were long and cool and the dew was rising on the grass; that time when, as a barefoot child, you would start getting damp toes. You half heard the lawn mower whining back and forth, back and forth, and you were thinking ahead to sitting on the patio and watching the fireflies float up out of the long, weedy grass under the apple tree. Then the lawn mower stopped abruptly; it needed more gas, you thought, or maybe there was a plastic bag in the way. When the silence lingered, you walked around to the front yard, curious, and found him leaning up against the car in the driveway, the silent lawn mower in front of him. The streetlight flicked on as you reached him; he held out his arms for a hug, and you felt his sweat, tacky against your skin.

"I saw a ghost," he said.

You pushed the hair back from his forehead and blew lightly on it to cool him down. His forehead was pale compared to the rest of his face.

He pointed over toward the big maple tree, the one that was so pretty each autumn. But nothing was there.

"What kind of ghost?" you asked. You still had your hand on top of his head, and when you removed it, his hair stayed back where you'd pushed it.

"Like a soldier from the Civil War," he said. "He was leaning against that tree, and then he was gone."

"Confederate or Union?" you asked.

He looked annoyed, as if you'd asked the wrong thing, but it seemed a logical question.

"It was a ghost," he said. "I saw a ghost."

"Did he do anything?"

"Maybe it was the heat," he said.

"Maybe it was a real ghost," you said. "Confederate encampments were along here." There was a silence. A car went by too fast, music spilling from its open window. "That tree's big enough to have been here then."

"This is stupid," he said, and he leaned down and pulled the cord on the lawn mower. The engine roared, and he couldn't hear you anymore, and you watched him push the mower across the yard. You saw nothing under the maple tree, just newly cut grass spit into lines and shadows stretching slowly into the dark.

Now you're the one who cuts the grass. People tell you to hire a service, but you don't. When you're done mowing in the evening, you lean against the car and wait, but all you ever see are fireflies rising from the damp grass where you leave it long under the maple tree.

Excerpted from This Angel on My Chest by Leslie Pietrzyk. Copyright © 2015 by Leslie Pietrzyk. Excerpted by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.