Ghost Village

I thought of this place again today: the ancient village clinging to a mountainside, its tumbledown walls knotted with roots and branches, its inhabitants driven out by deadly avalanches a hundred years ago. I remembered how wrong it felt to climb over the roots and the ruins in my cheerful summer shoes, the breeze clammy on my arms, like a disconnected hand touching me in a crowd. I felt as though the lost souls from all around must gather here, where the living could not dwell.

I thought of it again today. I thought it was perhaps the kind of place you might have flown away to. I imagined going there again some day and visiting you, bringing you something pretty that would bob in the breeze. Except that it was so hard to find the village and I can't remember how I got there anymore.

Take my love, such as it is. There is no graveside I can visit, but I promise to build you a village just like this one in my mind. I promise to sing you lullabies among the ruins as the sun goes down. And in the mornings, I will bring pretty things that bob in the breeze.