ghosts

When he died, I started seeing him in stranger's faces. A glimpse, a profile, a wayward curl sweeping across a forehead. Every voice carried hints of him, every wicked and rather had the lilt of his voice wrapped around them. He was everywhere, and I hated him for being everywhere but the one place I wanted him.

Home.

Home, where the improbable scent of lemons always seemed to hang, where the coffee brewed freely and where there were always muffins in a tin box. Home, where stained-glass warmed the sun, where hardwood floors creaked under slippered feet and where dogs leapt to greet opened doors. A warm, inviting place, where people fought and loved, where memories were made and cherished. A place to love.

It became a place I never wanted to be again.

I let it go, to people who promised to love it as much as I had. I watched them flower windows and sweep bricks, year after year, and I was grateful, but I hated them for it.

Make it less lovely, make it dreary, make it not a home anymore.

But silent wishes can't be heard, and so there it sat, flowered and swept and loved.

And so I ran. I ran far, far away, to a place where there are no bricks edged in granite, to a place where trees grew in bunches in open spaces. I ran, and I hid, and yet somehow it was never quite right. It was never okay.

Then out of nowhere, a word, just one word, and finally...finally...it was okay.

Goslings, she said, and suddenly I was okay.

The phone rang yesterday.

I'm not okay anymore.