it can be hours of silence
I strain to hear above it
adjusting the headphones
the small voices that hide between the wind
and the settling of the house
the leaves jostling about
brushing the roof
I push myself to continue
whispered footsteps from upstairs
birds greeting the yet unlit morning
this house is alive
with the dead who remain
and when I am about to succumb
to the blur of exhaustion
the child comes through...
'Mommy!'
not once, but multiple cries
the sadness and fear in her voice
is palpable
and I am helpless to help her

how many hundreds of years has this child
repeated her cries
in this house
in this room
refusing to leave
still searching for her mother