Grey Ghosts

I tiptoe through empty rooms, lest my footsteps evoke his presence. I gaze at cracked linoleum, still bearing marks worn into it by the old table legs. Mother's face floats through the smoky windowpane, her sorrowful eyes pleading. Neil stares downward at the uneaten food congealed on his plate. Sarah's face is buried in a limp rag doll, clutched to her breast. I glance down the hall, past the bedroom. I will not go in there. No need to visit old pain. I turn my back to the silent, cold house and walk away from my past.