such things as ghosts

There is a trick to opening the bedroom window. It is necessary to sneak up and catch it by surprise, so that it springs up, almost by itself, as if startled. I suppose, when the new tenants move in, they will get it fixed. Or maybe have it completely replaced. But the smooth, gliding precision of double glazing will not be the same. It will lack character.

For years, I have sworn and fought and tussled against its cantankerous defiance in order to possess the hard won skill. And shortly, I will be made redundant in this respect.

I turn away from the impassive glass and regard the room itself. It is bare. Even so, every scratch on the floorboards has its story. Every blemish on the wallpaper brings back memories.

And then, there are the marks that cannot be seen with the eyes. The impressions, both invisible and yet indelible, made on the very air of this room, over the decades. Births, marriages, deaths… parties, the War, pets… rows and reconciliations… and most of all, the pervasive, gentle glow of love; welcoming, embracing, forgiving…

There is no excuse for my sentimentality. It is just the way I feel about this old house. So much of myself is contained here. My past.

If there are such things as ghosts, then surely this room must be haunted.

But, no. I am only being misty eyed and maudlin. No-one else can feel, as I do, the sheer emotional charge here. Crackling like static; the imagined whisper of people long dead.

The new tenants will soon map out which areas of the floor squeak. They will grow used to the gentle groans the house makes at night and will joke that it must be a restless sleeper. Its old bones creaking as it stretches. They will begin to lay down their own layers of history; like particles of dust drifting down in sunbeams.

I am not ashamed to allow tears to leak from my eyes. Sadness and anger and a dozen other violent, confused emotions. I cannot help feeling the new tenants have no right to be coming here. This is my house. Maybe I do not have legal ownership, but I certainly possess every single brick. As each possesses me.

How dare those strangers seek to intrude into this; my only home. I truly resent their intentions.

I am tempted to soak all the rooms with petrol and set the house ablaze. A decent cremation, instead of what will amount to a cruel desecration.

At last, my madness cools. I descend the stairs for the final time; the sound of my footsteps echoing despondently.

Bitterly, I observe that I am a trespasser in the only place where I have ever felt at home.