old_ghosts_c2.txt

Clock chime. Ding. One. Ding. Two. Et Cetera.

Jim struggles from a dream speaking her name into the listening shadows.

'Ellen?

The pitch dark shadows silent as lovewords from dead mouths. Marble graveyard lips, cold as stone. Ivy and moss. Memories haunting his present. Jim shivers and steps into the window sun. Rubs his thick veined hands. Prays. Then he makes lunch. Tomatoes and ham. He dreams the evening away - half out of life. On the radio a woman sings Four Last Songs. You don't have to know the language.

Such sweet sorrow. Who said that?

Later, a seat in the garden looking towards the singing sunset. There is nothing to see except blackbirds and sparrows; nothing to hear except the noise of butterflies' wings.

Even later, the clock in the parlour chimes twelve heartbeats. Night comes hot and bothered.

Climbing into an empty bed, Jim turns off the sidelight and watches the shadows huddling against the floral wallpaper. Stars look in at his greying face. A hot August moon in the open window. Soft as silence, quiet as apple blossoms falling, gentle as Ellen's dimpled smile. Ellen's same sad glad smile standing there by his bed. Faithful Ellen, waiting.

'Do you want me now?'

Yes! Dear sweet God - yes!

He says 'I can play now, Ellen, If you like. I'm finally, properly dead.'

'I'm glad. I've been waiting for such a long time!'

Jim rising from his bed, leaving his seventy-six years between the laundered sheets. Soaring through the moonlight with Ellen in his arms, the pair of them shooting like comets into Eternity while the clock in the parlour stops.

Forever and forever.