House sitting at Mom’s
and couldn’t sleep, so
I was snooping a bit in the
closet of the spare bedroom.
There’s a box there,
pieces of my childhood in it.
A story I wrote when I was
8 or 9, about a haunted house
A ghost lived there, a ghost
with just a pair of eyes that
watched me wherever I went.
I was alone in this house,
and there were many doors,
thousands of them.
Some led to empty rooms, or rooms
full of skeletons of others
who died before they found their way out.
Some other doors led to long hallways
with thousands of other doors,
and some others led to prisons,
or dungeons with implements of torture.
And I wandered and searched, for years...
according to the child “me”,
until finally I found a secret door I hadn’t seen,
and was free.  
I went home, and my parents were worried,
And happy to see me.

....a ghost watching, many doors,
wrong turns down hallways, prisons...
How did the child know?  
Maybe only children
and those close to death
know anything.  
Or they don’t pretend to know something
that we capable adults pretend to know.