The Return

The air is thick with memory - A fog of reminiscence. Or is it simply mist Rolling through the window? I feel the wind and taste the salt, Hear the distant pulse of waves Keeping time, skipping beats With my haunted heart. The wind chimes sway and croon From their place above the sill, Where sand dollars still form a row Among crumbs of sand. And there, on the bedside table - Speckled stones arranged just so. And if I lift them, I know I'll find dustless circles, Halos from the past. My vision blurs. Then I see her in the doorway - The ghost of childhood, Twirling in a cloud of skirts, Strings of seashells draped like gems Around her fragile neck. I blink - And she's gone. But through the mist I hear The patter of bare feet Down the empty hallway. By Heather Ober Submitted to Nette's "Mixed Senses" contest *This is an old poem I wrote on March 7, 2012