Tear Drops

Oh bother, Miles thought, hiding in his hidey-hole, one tear escaping from his dark chocolate pack rat eye. He had astonished himself, getting his entire body filthy, even his marvelous tail, in order to write out one of Harold’s dreadful poems in the dust collecting on the attic floor. “I never knew being a friend to a ghost could be such hard work,” he grumbled. “How I miss working with talented individuals, like Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger.” Miles smiled, remembering his second life, traveling first with the Beatles, and then the Rolling Stones, and late at night, whispering sweet musical words into their ears. “What has become of me,” he whispered. “Etching Harold’s dreadful lines into dust?”

“Pull yourself together, old man,” Miles said to himself, wiping the one tear from his face. He took a deep breath, counted to five, and exhaled slowly before trudging up the stairs to see what Harold wanted. “If he expects me to write another one of his so called poems in dirt, well, he can just kiss my pack rat ass goodbye.”

Much to Miles surprise, Harold’s head was stuck in a puddle of red mud, and the so-called poem had vanished in a pool of gray and red. “Miles,” Harold moaned, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You’re my best friend, and look, I’ve erased the poem.”

Miles wasn’t sure what Harold was talking about. Once he had scratched the words into the dust, he read the finished product one time, and then ran down the stairs, ashamed that he had sunk so low. Miles, delighted that the offending poem had been permanently removed, said, “There, there, old man, it’s going to be fine.” He patted Harold’s head with his little pack rat hand, and used his handkerchief to wipe a red tear from Harold’s eye.

“Miles,” Harold said, “You can touch me. Have I become solid?”

Miles pasted a smile on his face, and although his eyes got very large, he mastered his reflexes and refused to let them roll. “Why Harold, we’re friends. Of course I can touch you.”