Tour

I reek of sad

Empty halls, purple mache butterflies

Hang over the staircase.

They have my name

On the top left corner,

They have some joy

splattered in glitter.

Titters

From the ghost in the attic.

He used to watch me roam

As I pleaded to anyone who cared,

And he cares because he laughs.

He takes my hand,

As if he is giving me a tour of the house,

My house,

in that childish way the past

Leads you through memories. 

The wallpaper is scratched,

Kitchen tiles have fallen ill,

Yellow oozes from the cracks. 

He points at the basement door,

Says he counted how many tears

I shed. We regret not keeping score.

Its easier to remember the good that way,

Mother used to say.

The ghost takes me to the porch,

Ivy has taken the windowsills hostage.

Nostalgia is not as see-through as he thinks,

And he sighs. 

How did you grow up?