Old Ghosts

I don't want to be selfish - I don't.

I want to be supportive. I want to champion his request, but...I'm having issues. Problems. It's not that I don't understand, because I do. Once upon a time...it was my home too. But, I don't want him to go. Not back there. Not now…and maybe not ever.

Does this make me a bad person?

I can hear him pacing the living room at night. If I close my eyes, I can trace the steps he makes through our maze of cardboard boxes. His anxiety is a tangible thing - thick, heavy. His grief something he allows to pace behind elaborate constructed doors - big locks, sturdy chains. His barriers like my own. He is feathered with loneliness, but his is a hungry kind, one that I know I can only distract rather than heal. He needs something I can't provide. Something I'm unable to give.

We made promise, a pact. But…when she asked him, pleaded with him…he forged a contract and contract trumps promise in this scenario. I know it's selfish. I know it is. I feel it in my heart...to my toes. We’re making our escape to London, our bags are packed, affairs in order. If he leaves, I’m afraid he’ll stay.

I thought being alone didn’t bother me. I thought I’d toughened up, but with Aunt Clara gone and Daniel needing to return to a place I once called home...a place I’d have liked to remain, but I’m unsure now if those are gates I could allow myself to pass.

Beyond the gates there are ghosts…and I’m not sure my heart could stand the haunting.