I grew up in a house of closed doors and retreating footsteps, so light I wondered if anyone was even there. A house of ghosts, defined by a thick layer of dust on the couches, and doorbells that were never answered.
I grew up in a house of silence, the only signs of life: coffee mugs in the sink, and leftover crumbs on the kitchen counter. Silence so palpable it wraps itself around my throat until it becomes comforting. The microwave cannot reach zero here.
Birds chirp incessantly on Sunday mornings, and the weight of their music sits heavily on my chest. Plants reach for a slab of sunlight trickling between dusty window shades. I can hear their leaves straining, and I want to tell them to stop.
A patch of sunlight reaches the floor, and my cat purrs loudly and unforgivably in it's warmth. Sitting at the edge of my bed, there are hushed footsteps down the hallway, a door softly shuts, the silence is broken.
My throat tightens, and I shrink away from the light. To be unseen and unheard here is to be safe. There are five ghosts in this house, and I am one of them.
