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UNWELCOME GUESTS
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*Skype call tone* *Skype answer tone* I don't know if you'll remember this This was years ago, back when you were in New England, for the summer Clearing out your dad's place after he died We were talking one night Over Skype I was in Madison, if I remember right You were On your childhood bed in your childhood room Propped up by dusty stuffed toys Taking these long, meditative hits from your dad's old pipe And during these lulls in conversation Whisps of pixelated, low bit-rate jazz would Waft in from the kitchen Where his records were kept In permanent rotation You told me That for a while now Whenever the sun went down, you'd taken to keeping the place as dark and familiar and welcoming as you could Drifting from room to room by candlelight Peering through the hallway mirror into the shadows over your reflection's shoulder Hoping To be haunted *Skype end tone* I never believed in ghosts I mean, that said, whenever the train pa**es your flat Even today, I still look up to see if you're there Perched, muppet-like, at the upper floor window Waving wildly down at a train full of strangers because you know I'm in among them, somewhere Even though you haven't been there for six years I'm reminded of something that I overheard, once, at a philosophy department function back in 2008, it must've been Two professors discussing a theory that I have never been able to place That our memories and our thoughts and our emotions can be argued to inhabit physical space That we shed them in our wake Like footprints in fresh concrete And they stay precisely where we leave them Waiting for us to come by this way again someday Retrace them Resurrect them, in a way And I might be wrong, but I think that's what's happening here That Bittersweet image of you at the upper-floor window Smiling Waving Is effectively the first stop on this train's route The tracks pa** directly through this memory, these thoughts, these emotions On the way to Ardrossan Harbor from Glasgow Central to catch the six o'clock ferry And today, especially It is a welcome distraction Because I am going home for Christmas For the first since my dad died And that big old converted hotel by the sea that I grew up in That I spent thirty-one consecutive Christmases in Without fail Sometimes with my grandparents, sometimes with my aunt and uncle Twice with you, but always at the very least My mum, my dad, and I That house is going to have just two people in it for Christmas For the first time since I've been alive Two people Tracking mud Through the hallways Trundling along as if on rails With no choice But to retrace footprints in the carpet from a long time ago Some decades old And In doing so Pa** through memory After thought After cold, grey emotion like... I don't know Like a hundred thousand unwelcome guests Crammed into the narrow corridors Of our dark hotel by the sea As I said I don't believe in ghosts But that doesn't matter, really I don't think you did either I think I'm about to find out what it actually feels like to be haunted
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