While We Wait

- Ghosts

 I watch as ghosts dance through the halls of the house. They twirl and float — always just along the edges of my sight — in time with the soft creaking of the walls and floors as they shift in the heavy wind. They are gentle spectres: they step deftly around me, swishing like the stalks of wheat in the field down the road.

There are ghosts in the kitchen. They're clearer than the rest, heads tipped back in laughter and I can see your teeth as you smile and the glint in my eyes as I grin. We are young. Something bubbles on the stove and I'm chopping garlic and onions. It's not "I love you," it's a peeled orange shared between us.

I know the feel of everything in the house. I reach out to the rubbed-smooth corners of the table to steady myself as I pass.

I follow a whispered laugh into your studio. Your paintings still hang on the walls, vibrant streaks of paint glowing as afternoon light seeps in through dusty windows. You turn paints into trees, eyes, and towns, and I lean over your shoulder to watch. It's not "I love you," it's a stripe of blue paint on my cheek.

The house shifts and settles with a sigh. It is old, older than even I am.

My bones are almost visible under the wrinkled skin of my hands when I grip the railing to walk up the stairs. I skip the creaky stair out of habit but I hear it groan anyway. You're sitting there, cramming a slip of paper into the hole in the corner where it meets the wall. You meet my eyes as I walk in the door but rush off before I can say anything. I watch myself give a silent chuckle as I pull out the paper and smile at your loopy script. It's not "I love you," it's a series of silly poems.

My breathing is more laboured than it used to be. I relish the burn: it reminds me that I'm still alive, though not for long.

There are books strewn in stacks all over the house, even though our bookshelves are half empty. I watch as we each wander around the house and garden, noses buried in books. We always did yearn and strain for knowledge. I see myself catch your forehead before you can walk into a wall. You berate me for writing in the margins of every book I pick up, but I don't miss how you reread everything I annotate. It's not "I love you," it's underlined passages in your favourite books.

The floorboards creak louder. But they're singing, not screaming.

My study is preserved in an eternal state of disarray. A quarter-full bottle of liquor sits on a shelf, untouched for who knows how long. You gaze out the window, contemplating something from the book in your hand as I search for a specific document in the papers strewn across the floor. I jump up in triumph when I find it and you turn, rolling your eyes but smiling nonetheless. It's not "I love you," it's a drunken debate about geese.

I can still dance. I shuffle out the steps to one I once learnt as I walk.

The garden is overgrown, more than it has ever been. I can see you peeking from behind an overly large sunflower. I watch as I ruffle your hair, dance with frantically spinning steps, pick worms and stones from the ground in awe. You swat away my hands, sing off-key, hand me seeds to plant with a barely suppressed grin. It's not "I love you," it's a handful of dirt and a pretty pebble.

There is dust everywhere. It may seem unclean, but it hangs like glitter in the air.

We're on the couch. I sink back into the squishy, off-pink chair that sits just across the room, shoved back against the broken bookcase, and see you run your fingers through my hair. You stare blankly ahead at your book, pretending to read, while I rest with one leg draped over the armrest and my head in your lap, twisting a strand of fraying green string into complicated knots. It's not "I love you," it's a handmade bracelet.

Yours is the last ghost I see. You smile, deepening the lines at the corners of your eyes.

I close my eyes and sigh, taking in the smell, the warmth, the magic of the house. I smile as I exhale, letting go of a memory and an apparition for each second that it takes for all the air to leave my lungs. I inhale again, slowly, and it feels fresh and devoid of dust.

I smile.

And then I breathe out once more and become the house's last ghost.