“You are losing it." A grave voice reaches my ear from my left shoulder. I pull down the visor and open the mirror. My shoulder critic sits there, his legs drooping over my collarbone, his face a mask of tears. "I am not," I retort. "She was here, clear as day! Well, maybe not 'clear as day' but real enough." My shoulder critic has been with me for as long as I can remember, born perhaps from only-child loneliness, or simply a part of me, like an arm or leg. He appears unbidden and then disappears again for long stretches of time, but when he is around, he is always dressed to express rather than impress.” SpiritualSpiritualityGriefInner VoiceMagical RealismCreative NonfictionLyrical ProseGrief JourneyDeath PositiveShoulder Critic Author:Alexandra Dionisio