Daydreams of the Past

At first, Miles thought the screech that had rudely awoken him from his scintillating dream was a dying owl, or perhaps an attack cat on the prowl. However, he realized that his roommate, Harold, was sobbing uncontrollably. “Oh dear,” Miles grumbled to himself, running up the stairs to check on Harold. “What’s the matter, old man,” Miles said.

“Daydreams of the past are a comfort when the present is painful and there is no future,” said Harold the ghost.

            “Gads, Harold,” said Miles, twitching his whiskers, “you’re not going to be moody again today, hmm—are you?”

            Harold harrumphed, and his head rolled off from the exertion. It fell to the floor with a clump.

            “Oh my,” said Miles. “It looks like it’s going to be another one of those days.”

            Harold stood up and walked toward his head. When he bent down to pick it up, his knees snapped.

            “If I had lived,” said Harold, “I would have needed new knees.”

            “Well, there you go,” said Miles. “Death can be a blessing to one in their old age.”

            Harold picked up his head and plunked it back on his narrow shoulders.

            “It’s awful dusty in here,” he said. And then he sneezed, causing his head to fall off, again.

            “Oh my,” said Miles. “Perhaps we should do a little spring cleaning today, hmm?”

            Harold walked carefully about the room, tripping over a piece of flooring that had come unglued.

            “Oh, Miles. Help me find my head.”

            Miles ran across the floor, narrowly escaping Harold’s falling figure.

Harold crashed onto the dusty floor screaming, “Watch out Miles.”

A silence came between them, more pained than awkward.

“Miles, Miles,” said Harold with a gasp. “Where are you?”