These Silent Halls I Roam

I was so excited when you guys first moved in! This old house had felt so empty for so long. I would wander these silent halls, listless, bored and lonely. These silent halls I roam, I'd always repeat in my head as a mantra for these dreary days. New people are always so exciting though. I just hope I won't scare you away. Oh, I just hope you'll stick around!

You seem like such a wonderful family. You, the wife and mother, with your radiant smile and golden curls, light up any room you enter, I'm sure. You, the husband and father, strike me as a sturdy, strong and highly dependable man. Teenage son, you seem to me more shadowy in nature. I sense a good heart, but some hidden pain too. And, young daughter, you are a light in an often dark world. The same golden curls as your mother, the same radiant smile, and with an added endless curiosity and boundless energy. Even now, you run through the house at breakneck speed, exploring every room with the fervor and enthusiasm of jungle explorers. I decided then that I'd like to get to know you first, young daughter.

Later that night, you are playing in your room all by yourself. You have a whole group of dolls lined up, stuffed animals, Tonka trucks and building blocks. You've created a name, background and story for each doll and stuffed animal in your collection. And considering how many there are, that's no easy feat. It's astounding, really. And, oddly, out of nowhere, I am given the stark reminder of my own brief childhood. I remembered playing with dolls, just like yours, and creating characters out of them too. When you pass the time like that as a kid, lost in what you're doing, you don't think about the creative brain and how comforting and pleasant a way playing is to pass the time. And this reminder is quite pleasant to me, now. One of your Tonka trucks is now rolling towards me, and you are not quite quick enough to grasp it and bring it back. And so, I do this for you. I gently roll it back to you, and watch your confusion as you realize there is nothing there that could have made this motion. You seem to frown in puzzlement for only a moment though, and resume your play-time fairly quickly. Children are often more accepting of the unknown and unexplained. Still though, I hope I haven't frightened you. You have given me such a nice reminder, after all.

The next night, I find myself aimlessly wandering the house, as I so often do, when a strange sound alerts my attention. It's coming from the kitchen, and so I glide my way there. Teenage son, you are slumped over the kitchen table, head in your hands, and painful, heaving sobs wracking your entire body. You lift your head up for a second, and I see the range of emotions naked on your face then. Anger, hurt, sadness all competing with one another, but ultimately equating to the same overarching ailment- pain. And I don't know what ails you precisely, but that's the thing about pain- it is very often an elusive, secretive creature and only those in the vice-like claws of it's grip are privy to it's secrets and how deeply they burrow. And since I don't know what ails you, but because I have known pain before, I want to try and help. And comfort. And so, I reach my hand across to you and gently place it atop one of yours. And, I see you recoil at the shocking, icy-cold of my touch. I see your widened, fearful eyes at the sobering realization of seeing no face or body attached to that touch. You abruptly rise from the table, wipe your eyes, and disappear to another room in the house. I am left there hoping against hope that you have understood my intent. That, at the very least, if I did not offer you comfort, I offered a brief respite or distraction from one of the harshest and yet most vital teachers of all of time.

The next night, things started to change. And I, unintentionally, may have made a grave mistake. Husband and wife, father and mother, you two had the house to yourselves this night and were enjoying a date. I found it refreshing and touching that date-nights were still a regular occurrence for you two. And your love for each other was so palpable, so pure, that, had I possessed a heart of my own still, I'm sure witnessing this scene would have warmed it immensely. Watching you two enjoy your meal, your wine, and to be content with simply gazing into each other's eyes was mesmerizing to me. You then decided to put on your favorite song of a slow tempo and dance with each other, laughing at the slight clumsiness of the affair. And something rather strange came over me then. Without being fully aware of it, I had started to mimic your movements. I spun, I twirled, and amazingly, something very much like warmth seemed to fill me, as it had in life when I knew it. If only I had been more careful. More aware. I spun too fast, too giddy, and knocked over a framed photograph on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. The shattering glass was overwhelmingly loud, and to my dismay, I saw the broken fragments of your family staring up at me. I had broken a beautiful memory of your beautiful family. I saw the shock, the confusion and the rage on both your faces. The shouts of "who's there?" And "show yourself!" I could not answer. I could only disappear from the room, quick as I could, leaving a cold breeze in my wake. I'm sure if I still had tear ducts and the ability to cry, I would've wept uncontrollably from now until well into the next day. I truly meant no harm or disrespect.

Within the next couple weeks, all of you have noticed the odd creakings in the house, the blasts of cold air as I walk past or as you walk through me, and you've mentioned each of your individual meetings with me and have concluded that this house is haunted and that you must leave. As I see and hear all of you packing your things on this last night, if I still had a voice, this is what I would say to you all: when life is inevitably snuffed out like a candle's burning flame and you are left forgotten, alone and rudderless, it's impossible to get over the fact that it has ended. And it's never less than empty. When you moved into this old, lonely house though, I was reminded. And as I return to roaming these silent halls again, I suppose I may be more content to do so this time around. If for no other reason than, I have been lucky enough to be reminded.