Old Friends

The house is as grand as I remember. Trailing ivy climbs the wall, wayward roots, strands of hair wrangling themselves free. Neither of us have moved on.

I close my eyes and when I open them everything is shiny and new. Yet, no matter how hard we try there’s no escaping death’s scythe. Everywhere are people I don’t recognise, clustered around their chosen queen bee. As I pass by, a few shiver or glance over their shoulder, but no one acknowledges me, except you.

“Hello, old friend,” I say, “guess they don’t believe in ghosts, but I know you do.”

peas with honey