Ghosts

The face at the window, the feeling of dread as I tread to the door, the mysterious welcome, a touch on my shoulder, a cough down the hall, a shadowy figure in Civil War dress looking oddly like me, blowing his bugle then vanishing into the dark. I am back at Appomattox, my comrades around me lying dead or dying. In front of a looking glass feeling transparent, we stare in the mirror, there's no image, no image at all.