Death of a Nightingale

A PROLOGUE ABOUT A GHOST

Let's talk about the forgotten romance of poetry. Shall we?

Last night upon the stair,

I saw a man who wasn't there.

He wasn't there again today.

Oh, how I wish he'd go away. 

Now, this particular gem has always been a favorite of mine. In four little lines, it frightens us of an intruder, already within our house. When my father used to tell it to me (an avid poetry fiend by the way), I always thought it referenced a ghost. A revenant of a lost soul, who had passed with unfinished business. 

Now, many, many years later, I think it speaks of something entirely different. You see, dear reader, the author of this little joyous beast, named it "The Antigonish Poem", which roughly references the anguish of losing someone most dearly beloved. A mother, a father, a child, or a lover. I believe, having been alive longer than anyone I know, it speaks of oneself. 

Every time you lose someone dear to your heart, it breaks in two. And even though it heals, you lose a little piece of yourself to the ones you gave it to. A sliver of your precious self will always be with those you lost. And if you should meet them again, or their memory flares up, you recognize yourself. The forgotten pieces... 

So, alas the man, or in my case, it would be a woman, sees a reflection, a remnant of himself as he used to be, once, long ago. A ghost of a different kind. A shadow of a forgotten part of self, scaring him into submission. So? Shall we submit?