There was once a time when that old woman’s home (the one with the two small but loud dogs) was a bookstore. It was beautiful; I was ten. I wasn’t afraid of dark wood or shaky stairs, and I would spend hours running my hand along the shelves, listening to the man and wife bellow speak about what they would make for dinner. They owned the store, although it much more seemed like they lived there, like it was their home. She had full but short blond hair, dyed. He was tall, and that’s all I remember, besides that he had a friendly tone of voice. That year was the year of ghosts. One dark corner was my favorite, the floor boards had cracks that let in more light than the happily forgotten window spying from the ceiling. I wasn’t nervous, not while reading about ghosts. I recall one book in particular feeling bigger than I was – at the time I was a spindly thing, with hair bright but not bright enough to stand out among the dark walls and books laden with dust. I liked it that way, I liked to be hidden while reading about spirits that could lift houses and whisper stories to me while I slept. I liked to feel the thick muddy memories in the air as I slowly noticed my self breathe.
At times I wonder why those dogs continue to bark through even the stillest of nights. I guess it’s to remind them that they’re flesh and blood in a world full of ghosts that will always whisper otherwise.
ERS
