Myra McEntire - Ghosts

RUINED

The fire-blackened bricks and flapping sheets of plastic make most folks hurry past.

Shattered glass lines the boundaries of the remaining foundation. No curious feet dare tread here. Fresh blood could be spilled. That would be a mistake, they think.

But spilled blood isn’t what the ground wants. It isn’t what I want.

The birds know. They peck at seeds from sunflowers that grow back, even the though the earth is ruined. The gentle bobbing heads and yellow petals are at odds with the truth of how the house came not to be.

There was a girl. There was a boy. There was a lie.

There always is.

“Good evening.”

The voice comes from the path, the one I planted with thyme between the stones.

“I brought teacakes. Lemon, your favorite. I’ll just set them here.” He clears his throat, his most marked anxious habit. I picture his hat in his hand, crumpled as always. “I won’t be coming back.”

The air stills and the birds stop pecking. I can hear him breathing.

The birds know the ground wants restoration, to be turned over, dug up, replenished. Remove rotten earth and return new life. Spilled blood is hopeless. Living blood flows through veins, carries oxygen to lungs, leaves rosy lips by way of laughter and whispered secrets.

But somehow, secrets always lead to lies, so the ground remains ruined.

“I can’t stay in this town any longer, with all the questions. The guilt. We’re leaving. I just wanted to say … you made the choice to end things the way you did. I never lied to you – I never lied.”

He didn’t lie. But she did.

“The house. They’re tearing the rest down, tomorrow. Maybe when it’s gone you can find peace. Goodbye, Charlotte.”

My rage ripples across the tangled grass and weeds, and back, bringing the smells of lemon and thyme.

The scents of burning flesh and smoke choke them out when I strike the match in my mind.

Again.