The Ghost in My Old House is Me
I Went “Real Life” on a Trauma-Induced Reccurring Dream and Lived to Write About the Experience
I find myself in my childhood home. It must be summer because the sun is beaming into my bedroom, hot and bright. I'm standing in the hallway. I must be 12 years old because my hair is cut into a blunt bob, and I am supposed to be doing chores. Specifically, It is Saturday, and mom said I had better clean out that damned linen closet before going outside.
I can hear a radio in the distance. It's playing the song These Dreams by Heart. The air is fragrant with the skunky smell of weed, and mom says, "Hey, Carolyn! You gonna pass that or what?"
The doors to the closet are dusty, with peeling lemon-yellow paint. They squeak when I open them, and sludge pours onto my feet. How am I going to clean this?
The mud makes an ankle-deep puddle. I can't see the carpet anymore. I tell myself that kids shouldn't have to clean messes this big. I grab my tattered rag, and I try anyway.
