My neighbor’s ghosts are hanging around, over the sidewalk. On my early morning walk, I pass through them like passing through a curtain. The wind pulls them toward me, and I admit a little uneasiness. I saw Melissa in the store yesterday, and she grinned when she talked about them. She said, “I love my ghosts!”
Halloween is around the corner, literally. Follow the ghostly muse to write a small poem today. Post in the comments. Encourage other writers with your response. I wanted to try a cinquain (pronounced “sink-cane”). Syllable count of 2,4,6,8,2. There are other variations you can try. Here is a guide to the form.
Morning Walk in October
Ghostly shapes in the wind. Shivers ripple my skin. I step lightly through the curtain of gauze.
Music is my mother’s memory. She was a pianist. When I was a teenager, she went back to school to get her masters in piano. She was always teaching and playing piano and singing in the choir at church on Sundays.
Last weekend my sister, my niece, and I drove up to Mississippi to visit her. She recognized us as people she loved dearly. Her conversations were choppy, a thought would begin but derail before she could finish the sentence. But music is still her love language.
Watching the LSU game together in the hotel lobby, we started “bom, bom, ba-bom, ba” the tune for the fight song and she joyfully joined in. At church she popped up from sitting to sing the service music in perfect tune. My sister played a song she knew Mom loved on the radio, so we could all sing along.
NPR did a report recently about a son who plays the guitar and sings for his mother with Alzheimer’s. (A four-minute listen at this link.) My brother is a musician. He plays keyboards with a band, with another artist, or alone. He makes sure Mom gets to as many gigs as she can, especially the ones he does in senior living facilities.
I was a little wary of my visit this time because my brother had reported that she is worse (She had a bout of Covid a month ago.), but her light is still there. It comes on when she hears familiar music. It shines when she sees my face. My sister and I are baffled by how one minute our mother seems far away, out of touch with the world. And the next she will say something completely logical and true. We are blessed that our mother is getting good care, and she is mostly happy. I admit to tearing up, though, when she was singing. It was then that I saw the person I long for, the one I miss.
I follow storytellersgallery on Instagram. He posts a photo and poem daily. This one spoke to me.
Already Gone.
i wish i could understand how you feel i wish i could feel what you’re missing here
i always feel like we’re doing okay that no matter what i know it could be worse
but i’m getting the idea that maybe you don’t agree i think you know i would give you anything and everything but i’m learning that maybe that’s not enough and maybe that’s why it feels like you’re already gone
Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. She teaches gifted elementary students, writes poetry and children's books. Welcome to a space of peace, poetry, and personal reflection. Walk in kindness.
Reflections on the Teche 