Memento mori

A new perspective on the classic ghost tale. Any and all feedback much appreciated.

When I was a young girl, I used to think that love songs were always about romantic love. All of that changed when Emaline was born. Now, when I hear a love song or play one on the grand piano in the parlor, I don’t think of star-crossed or jilted lovers; I know that these songs are written expressly for the two of us, mother and child, inseparable. 

That is love; all else is ghosts and smoke and illusions of love.

I can feel her here in this house, our house " almost as if I reached out and touched her, which I can no longer do, or course. Death has taken her from me. 

 

I could, though, once upon a time; I held her and rocked her, kissing her soft tresses which smelled of lavender and powder, but no longer. This simple pleasure of mothering is beyond my reach.

I can see Emaline sometimes, as well " a glimpse out of the corner of my eye when the light is just right; hiding behind the heavy velvet curtains in the library, her little stockinged feet scampering across the parquet floors in the great hall. I see vague outlines of her, gray and wispy " small, as she was when she became lost to me.

Once, in her bedroom as I hugged her stuffed green turtle " her most prized toy " I felt her near, saw her familiar shape almost next to me, gauzy and insubstantial. I sensed her shape pause, and heard, in her small voice, a single word: “Mommy?”

Then…gone.

When I have these moments and turn towards…what I feel to be her spirit " I hesitate to use the word ghost " when I turn to her, she vanishes, her tinkling laugh disappearing like a bird flying towards the horizon. But, I am haunted by her all the same. She persists in this place and I am ever aware of her spectral presence.

The consumption separated us.

I have lost track of how long ago " in this empty house, time passes strangely and my perception of time is like a mirror underwater. No one is here to wind the clocks or tell me when to dine, when to rest. Day and night have melded into one unbroken length of gray since she was taken from me. I suppose this is what grief does to the mind. Grief and loneliness. They are my only companions in this large and crumbling house.

Grief, loneliness and what I see and sense of Emaline.

A realization shakes me, a fragment of memory jolts my perceptions; I see a tearful Emaline at a funeral, but it is not hers.

It is mine.

In an instant, I remember my coughing fits, the blood I spit into my handkerchief, the doctors and their useless, bitter-tasting remedies.  I remember my death, and Emaline’s grief.

I am the ghost, wandering this house while she lives on in it.

I am haunted by the living, by my Emaline and this is my hell. 

Reviews

[moonlit_cove]

This was absolutely wonderful! I love stories like this - where you can feel the pain of the mother, but at the same time can sense that something just isn't quite right. The tension builds until the moment of truth comes out. Beautifully crafted. Very well done! Can't wait to read more from you!

[DVMDV8]

Thank you so much. I'll try and post more soon. Yours have been great to read as well.

[moonlit_cove]

Thank you! Looking forward to it!