Softly the sunlight
caresses
the soft contours
of her face,
waking her gently
to a new day.
With a yawn
she sits up,
on the edge of the bed,
reaches for her glasses,
faithfully waiting
on the nightstand,
as always.
As she puts
her glasses on,
the world swims
into sharp focus,
sharper than she would like.
In those few, precious moments,
between sleep
and being fully awake,
her bedroom,
her house,
the whole world,
seemed pristine,
unsullied.
But with the donning
of her glasses,
harsh reality sets in.
She can see the dust,
the cobwebs,
the chips and cracks
in the painted walls.
Not filth, in no way
a hovel,
but tangible signs
that she is letting things
slip past her.
Once, she kept
an immaculate house,
cooked fine meals,
rather than frozen dinners.
Once, she had a husband,
children to care for,
a reason to
make an effort.
Now,
her life is as empty
as her refrigerator,
her husband dead,
her children grown
with lives of their own,
and little time to call
or come see her.
She felt no bitterness
over this,
it was the way of life,
how things were meant to be.
Still,
it made for an
empty and lonely life.
Those precious, fleeting moments,
before reality sets in,
keep her going,
reminding her
of a life well lived,
of family, well loved,
and the promise
of a better place,
yet to be hers.

The night was calm,
eerily silent,
with not even
a trace of a breeze.
The moon was just
a pale sliver,
hovering
slightly above the trees.
A road passed
by a field,
mostly hidden
by dense grey fog,
and down the road
came walking,
walking,
walking,
down the road
came walking
a young boy
and his dog.

The boy wore
thin pajamas
that were nothing
against the chill,
his dog walked
right beside him
its tail
low and still.
Their pace
was slow and plodding,
they walked
as if in a trance,
and from the field
came growling,
growling,
growling,
from the field
came growling,
but they never
gave it a glance.

The field
had a reputation,
rarely spoken of
in light of day,
but children
were said to vanish
when coming here
to play.
But the town
kept its secrets
and few people
knew cause
of the field’s
dark haunting,
haunting,
haunting,
the cause of the field’s
dark haunting,
they simply knew
it was.

In the morning
the sun rose brightly
burning away
the fog.
A driver saw something
in that field,
it was
the young boy’s dog.
The dog was cold,
half frozen,
but its spirit strong
it wouldn’t yield,
half dead it was
still crawling,
crawling,
crawling,
near death
it was still crawling
slowly
across the field.

They searched
for the boy all morning,
in the adjoining woods
as well as the field.
His parents shook
with heart-wrenching sobs,
a terrible loss
that would never
be healed.
They searched into
the evening,
until the sunlight
began to dim,
but the little boy
was missing,
missing,
missing,
their only son
was missing,
and they doubted
they’d ever find him.

Time passes
and the young boy
is never,
ever found.
The town still keeps
its secrets
and never talks
about this cursed ground.
So despite everyone
knowing
that kids occasionally
vanish there
the whole town
did nothing,
nothing,
nothing,
the entire town
did nothing,
unable to admit
to their fear.

“I have a story to tell.”
said a woman,
as she sat down
amid the group
of strangers.
Nobody looked up,
all too engrossed
in their own
knots of conversation.
The woman,
faced lined,
hair lank
and going grey,
took a moment
to gather herself,
then cleared her throat
and tried again.
“I have a story to tell,
it’s a ghost story!”
That got through,
there were all here,
at this hotel
with a reputation
for being haunted
for a ghost hunt.
Almost en masse,
they turned,
a few seemed surprised,
as if they had not realized
someone was sitting there.
She continued,
now that she had their attention.
“It’s not my story,
it belongs to someone
I met once,
long ago.”
She shook her head,
thinking how odd is sounded
to say something as intangible,
as ephemeral
as a story
could belong to anyone.
“She stayed here,
a few years back,
for one night,
room 312.”
There were some murmurs,
room 312
was why there were here.
The room where
a woman took her life,
after finding out
her husband was cheating.
The room
that was the most active,
in a very haunted
hotel.
She had them now,
she knew it,
their interest
was piqued.
Although the hotel
tried to quiet the rumors,
they still got out,
and those that wanted
to experience
a haunted hotel
always managed to find out.
So, the week of Halloween,
the management
booked the hotel,
with these ghost hunters.
Year after year
she saw them come,
and year after year
she told her story.
“It was the year
after the suicide,
there had been
a few sightings,
but the room
was still being rented.”
All eyes were on her,
they hung
on her every word,
a few still holding
forgotten drinks,
it their hands.
“Her name was Rachael.
She was heading
to her hometown,
to visit family,
and stopped her
for the night.”
“She was tired,
kept to herself,
just checked in
and went to bed.”
A few people nodded,
they knew how it was,
traveling could be wearying.
“Shortly after 2 a.m.,
she woke.
A noise had disturbed her,
a drip, drip, drip.
Subtle but persistent.
Heading into the bathroom,
to see if a tap was dripping,
she saw the ghost.
It was in the bathtub,
pale, still,
floating in the ghostly remains
of the ****** water
she was found in.
She fell back,
nearly fainting
her heart nearly beating
out of her chest.
She could not believe her eyes,
it was not possible.
But there it was,
still lying there,
she could even smell
the moldy, rank smell
of a decomposing body.
And just where her horror
had reached its peak,
terror came to play.
The ghost sat up,
its translucent head
slowly turning
towards her,
the eyes,
closed permanently
so long ago,
opened,
looked at her,
froze her in place.
With a squishy sound,
the hand clenching
the edge of the tub,
released,
pointed at her,
and she heard
the long dead voice,
whisper her name.
She fainted.
When she came to,
without a word to anyone,
without taking time
to pack her bags,
she left the room,
the hotel,
possibly the state.”
She sat back,
waited,
the others sat
is stunned silence,
they had been captivated.
Finally, the spell broke,
one by one
they began to animate,
chat among themselves.
One person,
more critical than the other
posed a question.
“If the woman left
without a word,
how did you come
to hear her story?”
At that point,
behind the group,
a waiter dropped
a tray of glasses.
The group turned,
startled,
and when they turned back,
the storyteller had vanished,
as if she had never been there
at all.

A single tear
carved a clean track
down her *****,
careworn face,
as she fought
to hold back
a sob.
She knew
that she should be strong,
that the opinions of others,
mattered little
in the grand scheme of things.
It was a hard life,
and it wore her down,
sometimes
it seemed as if it would
simply grind her to dust
and she would blow away,
and cease to be.
Almost she hoped for it,
it would be a relief,
an end to the
nearly constant
fear and pain
that she lived in.
It had not always been this way,
it had once been easy,
she had two parents
that loved her,
and did their best for her.
Then her father had died
when she was only fourteen,
after a long battle
with cancer.
Her mother had tried
to shield her,
but she knew that the
hospital bills
were astronomical.
The insurance
and savings were
barely enough,
her mother
had to go to work.
Things were tight,
but they had not starved,
and they learned
to be happy again.
Before long,
it was time for college,
and with a partial scholarship
they could just afford it.
But halfway through
her first year
her mother died.
A sudden heart attack.
And just as suddenly,
it was over.
She could not afford tuition
without her mother’s help,
she could not afford the apartment
where her mother had lived.
She had nothing left.
No family, no money
no school,
and nowhere to live.
She had friends,
but was too proud
to ask for help.
She found a job,
it did not pay much
but by sleeping in her car,
she could afford to eat.
She tried to save a little
each week,
in hopes of getting a room
somewhere.
She did her best,
trying not to feel sorry
for herself.
But sometimes,
like today,
that single tear
would slip out.
She hated it,
a sign of weakness,
when she was
trying so hard
to be strong.
She lifted her head,
reached deep within
and found her strength.
She was better off
than some that she knew.
She did not have to sleep
in an alley
or a cardboard box.
She was not digging
through dumpsters
to find something to eat.
She did not need
to go with strange men
as some of the other girls
out on the street did.
She was better off
that a lot of others,
there was no reason
to cry.
With a hand
that still trembled,
but was growing steadier,
she wiped away
that single tear,
hoping it would be
the last.

Devastated,
the young man,
heartbroken
for the first time.
Unable to cope
or understand,
sought solace
in his mother’s
wisdom.
She sat him down,
served tea,
and looked him
in the eyes.
“This is just
a moment in time.
A fleeting instant
in the vastness of time.”
He looked at her,
upset,
confused,
she took pity on him
and said…
“This will all pass.”
He nodded,
not soothed,
and kissed her forehead.
A few days later,
he laughed
at some silly thing,
one of his friends said,
and realized
his mother
had been right.
A few years later,
while in college
the young man’s mother
passed.
It was natural,
peaceful,
in her sleep.
He grieved,
and at her funeral,
as he knelt
by her coffin,
tears running down
his face,
he whispered.
“This is just
a moment in time,
an eyeblink
in a vast eternity,
that you have joined.”
He bent forward,
kissed her forehead
and stood.
“My grief too, will pass.”
Eventually
his grief did pass,
although he missed
his mother
every day.
And he never
forgot her lesson.
And when he had
children of his own,
and his daughter
cried in his arms,
over some boy
that broke her heart,
he held her gently,
dried her tears,
and told her tenderly…
“This is just
a moment in time,
painful but fleeting,
This pain will pass
in time.
But until it does
I want you to know,
you can always
lean on me.”

He wakes up most mornings
before the sun,
never needing an alarm.
This morning he wakes
at four,
and he knows there will be
no more sleep.
He starts his day
as he always does,
shave, shower,
a quick breakfast,
eaten while standing
at the counter.
He tries to keep busy
during his day,
tidying his house,
reading, writing,
cooking lunch and dinner.
Some days he talks
to his dog, or sings,
to keep himself company.
Most days, he runs
out of things to do
after dinner is eaten
and picked up.
He will sit
in the evening,
watching television,
but the shows
are not much fun
with nobody to discuss them.
Inevitably,
he gives up,
goes to bed early,
only to wake up early.
The last thing he does,
every night, before bed,
is to mark the day off
on his calendar.
He has a simple system,
a large, black X
if he has not spoken
to anyone that day,
(his dog, a poor conversationalist, does not count).
On days he has a conversation,
he uses a large red circle.
Today was a black X,
and he marked it carefully,
this whole month
was nothing but
black X’s.
He had no friends or family,
so he wasn’t surprised.
Well, that was not
exactly true,
he had a few cousins,
he spoke to them once a year,
mostly,
usually around the holidays.
He had a few friends,
as well,
or at least people
he thought of as friends.
He was always glad to see them,
and to pass some time
talking to them,
but they never called him.
The seemed glad to see him,
if he ran into them,
on some errand.
They would smile,
wave,
sometimes even walk over,
and say hello.
They never ducked around a corner,
or froze him out
with stony, cold silence,
so they must be friends.
Just not the kind of friends
that thought to include him
in their plans,
or call him up
just to say hi.
Just the same,
he kept himself busy,
filled his days,
and marked them off
on the calendar,
filled with black X’s.
Always hoping for the day
that through no action
of his own,
he could mark that day
with a red circle.

I still remember how you made me feel
on the day that first we met,
how the air seemed to leave the room,
and time paused
as you smiled at me.
I still can feel the too rapid beat
of my heart, as you walked closer,
and the burning flash of revelation
when I knew you were the one,
my one and only one.
My heart still swells
and my eyes still weep
when I think of how you took my hand
and said “yes”, you would be mine,
and my heart nearly stops
when I remember the day
the doctor said,
“We did all we could.”
and I lost you,
forever.
But I still have my memories,
memories of you, of us,
of how I felt, having you in my life.
I wrap them around me,
like a blanket against the cold,
pull them over my head,
and hide, from the pain
and the loneliness.
Time goes by, as it always does,
and my wounds fade
but never heal,
and I’m not sure
that I want them to heal completely.
Without their searing flames
my memories of you
could cool and die,
leaving me defenseless
and alone,
in a world, without you.