Mostly, she would miss the bumps in the night, the toppled picture frames, the bookcase knick-knacks nudged from their dusty footprints by the mischievous poltergeist lurking in the upper reaches of her rooms.

She would miss having another spectral shadow to soft-foot through midnight moonbeams with, another restless spirit to help her bear the ticking clock‘s smallest, but longest hours.

She would miss the curdling screams and yowls behind the tinkling bells and squeaks of a bored phantom at play.

She placed the scratch-post down alongside the curb, the soft rain already soaking it’s carpet wrapped wood. She would miss the aisle at the market with its toys and treats, and she would miss the small, gentle spirit droning its joy that she was returned home again safely.

She was happy for the rain to hide her tears from the unfeeling drivers of the passing cars, and from the large-eyed children sitting beside them. She stood a good while in it, recalling the things she would miss, counting them up. If she stood there long enough the cold rain might take her too from an ever lonelier world.

What to do when you've outlived your Ghost?

Someone once said

Something to me

About something

So serious

That I seriously

Had to think about

Things so differently

Than the way I thought

It was the teachers

Taught it to me.

About tricks and lies,

And how people live

And die for money.

Such a tragedy, that

This is just the way it

Has to be, so we can see

What we have to see,

To believe.

Art can be words, melted together with endless possibility of meaning.

Art can be a painting, where vibrant colors move into focus.

Art can be a place. That tall oak tree you would sit below as a child. Where you could see the sunrise over the mountains.

Art can be a memory.

Art can be a reminder.

Art can be pain, express pain.

Art can be sadness, loneliness, regret.

Art is beautiful.