Dust to Dust

Harold the ghost sat upstairs in his attic, all alone, hands tapping the top of his skull, a smile etched along the jaw line. His skinny legs, bones really, connected to an even skinnier torso, jumped up and tap danced around the room. He stopped in front of a swirl of dust, and read aloud the poem that he himself had composed, and Miles, his dear friend, had faithfully carved using his elegant tail as a pen…

Shifting sands

run through my hands

Time isn’t on my side

God has taken my hide

Turned me into a ghost

I never even smoked

I wish I had a friend

Instead I just pretend

I wished they’d stay in this house

But there isn’t even a mouse

Even in the shadow of the rain

All I feel is pain

If they hit the lights just right

Maybe they’d end up here

But they’re not even near.

Harold set his heavy head on his narrow shoulders. Oh dear, he thought. I hope I haven’t offended Miles. Miles had dashed out of the attic and ran down the stairs as soon as he had completed Harold’s poem. Harold realized that he did have a very good friend indeed, and that friend was practically a mouse. Well, Harold mused, he’s actually a pack rat.

Oh dear, Harold said out loud to no one in particular. A spider spinning an intricate web paused and looked down at the ghost and wondered if he had a stomachache. Harold’s smile had turned upside down, and his eyelids leaked blood. “I’ve hurt my furry friend’s feelings,” Harold sobbed, his red tears spilling onto his beautiful poem.

Harold concentrated, which made his face contort into a frightening grimace. He wanted to solidify his hand so he could cross out the lines about the mouse. His hand, however, refused to obey. His tears, a veritable river of red rain, fell like hail onto the pile of dust, smearing the poem into oblivion.

The offending lines erased, Harold sat down on the oak rocking chair, rubbing his eyes. Unfortunately, he rubbed too hard, and his head fell off, splashing into the puddle of words. “Oh my,” Harold said. He looked up at his body, willing his hands to reach out and pick his head up, but his body remained in the chair, rocking.

“Miles,” Harold screamed, “Miles?”