Visitations

A cold wind picks the last leaves off the maple. Last night a full moon rose up through its branches and shone brightly into my room, casting its eerie light onto a crowd of ghosts who kept me from my sleep. Even behind closed eyes I could see their faces, silvered in moonlight. This morning they are gone, back into the holes of my head, asleep in their crypts. In old age you carry a cemetery around with you, filled with family plots and friends and others you have loved or hurt. They are not really there but the feeling of loss keeps them close, coming out to visit you when a full moon shines into your room and you are in want of sleep.