She lives in the half-life,

Standing in the world of men,

Gazing into the world of ghosts,

Waiting, longing for them to claim her.

They come to her while she makes beds,

Washes clothes, takes the trash cans to the

Curb for Friday pick-up.

She speaks to them,

Hums their favorite songs,

Laughs to herself at jokes

Only they would understand.

Shadows beckon and whisper her name.

Her children watch helplessly

As she moves farther and farther away

She has nothing left to give them.

Shadows are more real to her now

Than flesh and blood.

The faces come to her in her dreams.

Her mother laying apples on the roof of

The garden shed to dry;

Her father propping a scarecrow in the

Porch swing for Halloween;

Her handsome older brother straddling his

Motorcycle and riding away

Never to be seen alive again;

Her husband as he was when they first met -

Tall and strong and filled with life.

One face does not come.

The child that was taken so young,

The child that never learned how to

Laugh or play or dance.

She tries to remember her face,

The shape of her nose,

The color of her eyes.

That sparkle over shoulder -

Is that her?

Soon she will move into the shadows.

Already their hands are reaching out for her.

She goes about her daily chores

Waiting for them to touch her.