Ghosts

I never really gave it much thought, but I realize now that I was deeply saddened when my dad, with his other siblings, decided to sell the property which they inherited from their parents. This was where they grew up in, and where my siblings and I were born.

Several houses where built on that property in succession, which is not surprising given the number of years that saw my dad's family grow. And so, everytime I get to pass the house where I grew up in, I feel this pang -- of guilt, of sadness, of the pain of separation. And I somehow picture all these ghosts of my childhood walking around in that house.

Somehow, I feel the ghost of my ten-year-old self running up and down the length of that driveway, fighting sharks and pirates, or exploring dark, cavernous tunnels. Or just standing there, keeping very still, waiting for my parents to come home from work.

From the street outside, I could still see the window of my room. It looked down onto the street and I can imagine this little face peering out from that window, studying the silent darkness of midnight and the yellow circle of light from the old lamp post. But I see that the posts are now of the concrete kind: tall and over-burdened with criss-crossing wires.

There are ghosts in that house, and they will haunt every room until the walls that protect them from forgetfulness stand.