Rocking on the front porch swing, watching the fireflies do their luminous dances. Night bugs chirped, whizzed and cackled.
A faint smell of roses swirled in the gentle breeze. Perhaps this what a zephyr feels like.
From far off, I caught the sweet, earthy smell after a rain storm. Here it was brilliant starscapes; a billion trillion galaxies. Out of the velvet of the night sky, a falling star laid tracer lines as it hurled itself forward. “When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are . . .”
I should have made a wish. A wish for the continuance of my perfect life of solitude. I was good company for myself.
At dawn, a fleet of cars and U-Hauls bounced along the lane creating huge dust clouds. Loud voices. Banging. Blueprints and computer printouts of the renovations. Just too much. Retreated to the musty dusty attic as a survival tactic.
When my longing for swinging in the front porch swing got too strong, I tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the steps that creaked.
Gently pulling the new French Doors open and taking a deep breath of moist, cool, night air. A sensation I so dearly missed.
I slip out to the porch, now converted into an “outdoor” conversation corner. Because it was a funky antique, they had not renovated the swing out of existence.
I watch the fireflies I could not see from the tiny windows in the attic. Felt like crying.
Dammit, this was my house while I lived, and is my house since I died.
I gave no permission for the living to occupy my space; I didn’t ask for housemates.
I am to quiet, flittery, and timid. I’ve allowed them to become ensconced in their “country house” too easily.
It’s time I took back my house, my front porch swing, my fireflies. I’ve never had to haunt this place. Guess it’s time I did. Gonna be kinda fun. . . .