"Are You A Ghost?"

I sit on my modern red chair reading a book while staring at the old rocking chair opposite me. The old rocking chair starts rocking by itself, just like it has for the last six months since I moved into this old, musty, house.

"Are you a ghost?" I ask, feeling curious.

The rocking chair rocks a little faster.

"Can you hear me?" I ask again

The rocking chair stops.

I continue reading my book, and light the candle on an old antique piece of furniture that I cannot name. I bought the old piece of furniture from an antique store because I was intrigued by the literary qualities that the old, faded blue, and quirky design pattern held. Such qualities always tell a literary story of a past gone by; from old 16th-century writers to the present. There is a story to be told in everything if we look closely.

I put the book down, and I pick up a piece of paper and a pen. I start to write the words on a page that describe my feelings. I write:

"The lonely, depressed writer."

I haven't been out since my mum died six months ago. I have felt down and extremely sad. I don't want to talk to people; instead, I prefer to write my thoughts on paper.

I put pen to paper, and write some more:

"It has been a depressing, long winter; though winter isn't even here yet..."

After a period of stillness; the rocking chair, rocks again.

"Are you a ghost?" I ask, this time with a smile.

The chair is still again.

I continue;

"I have never felt so alone; darkness surrounds me."

I shed a small tear. It is true that I feel alone; I have felt this way since my mum died. She always loved me, looked after me, and listened to me. After dad passed away, she was consumed with grief, and it was grief that killed her.

"I worry that grief will consume me. I am trapped in my thoughts with nobody to talk to."

I shed a few more tears, then I dry my eyes; even though it isn't long before they flood again

A figure starts to form in the rocking chair.

A beautiful, petite, brown-haired middle-aged lady who looks just like my mum.

"You need not fear the grief, my darling; for I am always here.

Not in person, but in spirit; here to guide you, and love you.

I am always near."

A voice speaks to me.

My mum's voice.

I never believed in ghosts. I had heard many stories about poltergeists and ghosts that kill, but they always turned out to be myths.

I had never met a friendly, caring ghost.

...only, this wasn't just any ghost.

It looked like and sounded like the ghost of my mum.

Was I hallucinating in my grief?

Whatever was happening. One thing was for certain;

This ghost was my mum.

She must have felt my sadness, and now she was here; telling me that I was going to be okay.

Whether it was real or not didn't matter;

it was real to me, and those words meant something to me.

I picked up my pen, and continued writing:

"...but I must not let grief consume me, although I will always feel the loss of you, dear mum. You will always be here; my guiding light, when darkness consumes me. Your love will always be around me, and your spirit will forever guide me; just like it guides this pen to paper, allowing my words to flow, and the story to continue."

I smile, and sign my work:

Forever daughters love,

Holly.

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