I imagined my childhood as I stood, my memories engraved in the patterns on the wood. Those planks that make up our house, that now sits empty and alone, haunted by those without a home. The wood creaks and aches as the wind blows, whistling through the cracks, hoping someone will come back. I walk forward feeling along the stair rail, the urge to bail rising as I continue with each step. The stair steps bend beneath my feet as I’m about to meet my fate, my old room. The flickering lamp, clinking, fighting to keep its fire going and from blinking out of existence. My decaying bed, laying there still, I felt ill as I saw the figure who sat at the edge of my bed. The memories of my mom flooded back to my brain as the rain pattered against the glass window panes. She talked as if she had never been gone, the new day dawns and she continues. Her flow and words masking every other thought in my head, making me forget that she’s dead. I come back to myself, reeling and dealing with the fact that I am simply just a reflection in the window, the vertigo that strikes as I walk down those same stairs, back to the realization that I am just a ghost stuck with the wears and tears of this very house. Now don’t you see? Even the dead tell stories.