Monday, December 12, 2011

Sometimes people ask me about the scar between my eyes. Most of the time people don't. But the story is that when I was very young (4-6?) we lived in a house that was haunted. It was the middle of the afternoon so I felt safe enough to venture into the back bedroom where I never went because it had the worst feeling & what I remember is being so frightened by something that I went running out. So fast, infact, that I fell into the corner of a table. I only remember the fear and, afterwards, my mother rocking me while I cried. She told me that she, too, often felt the spirits; she never tried to tell me they were not there or that everything was okay, but somehow just knowing she felt it, too, made everything better. Even at five. Most of her bedtime stories were about the spirits she had felt when she was little, never malevolent or otherwise, just that they existed and where she had known them. I miss her. I wish that she would haunt me because I know these things happen and that our spirits leave traces and it would be enough just to have a whisper of her, yet.


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