I look in the old hand-held mirror that I’ve stuck up on the wall. I glance quickly behind me, wondering if my mother is behind me and it’s her image that I see.
I come to the old homeplace sometimes. I can feel the ghosts here so no wonder I think my mother has crept up on me. I sneak in the back door so no one will see me.
My childhood is here. I can hear it. My parents are talking softly in the kitchen. I sit down in the old rocking chair and wish for days gone by.
Photo credit @TedStultz
The Write Scribe 