I feed the birds, and they are not really tidy eaters, so seeds fly hither and yon. If it were up to my husband–the lawn taker-carer–as those seeds started to sprout they would be pulled or weed whacked; but I convinced him to let them grow this time. And look what I got! Since this yard has no trees and only some container gardens I managed to get in, this blast of yellow that attracts birds, butterflies, and bees is a welcome addition. I am loving the color!
L onely . . . in this time
O f increasing unbelief, looking frantically, hungering,
N ot for miracles, but for signposts that used to be so faith-clear, undisputed—
E ver-present testament, truth, surety,
L ooking for sanctuary, and I guess . . . just lonely for
“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you.
Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.”
My house is haunted.
I detect the wily ways she uses to move about, subtle but there,
My husband notices dishes that I have previously washed—meticulously, I might add—and they will have miniscule specks of baked on something or other. Not enough to be “dirty,” but just enough to be irritating.
She is saying, “I’m here; get used to it.”
Shoes I have put away appear in walkways so that I almost trip over them if I’m not careful. She sprinkles dust in the night. She leaves the light on in the garage, burning electricity, making me burning mad.
What is probably most disturbing is that every so often she appears in my mirror, her white, disheveled hair, her wrinkled brow,
those staring eyes.
I stare back; I glare back, but
I cannot be too irritated for too long because she does look familiar;
and she looks to have stories to tell; and yet,
she seems trapped, prowling around, haunting my house.
Some days, I look at my dad’s picture, and I think of all the things I wish I had asked him when he was still here;
but back then, I guess I just didn’t know yet what I didn’t know.