I haunt a house. And the house is mine. I drift from room to room and never leave a trace--no rumpled bed, no empty teacup or random spoon on the table: only an occasional breath of fresh flowers or lemon furniture polish. When visitors come, I disappear, only to return when all is quiet once again. I do not exist.
I am a phantom, living/not living in a house that is for sale. How strange it is that, to sell a house for people to live in, we must first pretend that no one lives there. Strip the place of personality, of family activity and pictures. Pristine rooms, devoid of habitation. Polished sinks and fixtures; gleaming counters and shining windows. We achieve the common denominator with which buyers can identify. And then...disappear.
I have to wonder what they say as they wander our rooms and observe the spectral outlines of our lives. Do they notice the maps, the arks, the beautiful turned-wood bowls? Do they skim the titles of our books and magazines and imagine who we are? Why are they moving? Do they aspire to a different life, a life like ours, full of interests that range from Shakespeare and theater to Dick Francis, to Western Exploration, to poetry. Do these casual observers record the secret places, like the window where I watch the squirrels scurry up and down the willow oak to their nest? Or the chair by the patio door where I can see the fat robin splashing in the fountain? Do they notice that, in the afternoon, the sun hits the prism of the foyer light and spills rainbows in the hall? Probably not.
Someone will buy this place, I know. It's a matter of time and finance, of income and outgo, supply and demand. Papers will be signed and exchanged, and money will zip along electronic trails to different banks and different pockets. Squirrels and robins and rainbows will continue, unobserved.
I will be gone, revivified in a new house, full of new discovery--ghost no more.
