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They called it child’s play,
imagination run wild,
a call for attention.
But my aunt could see ghosts
living
in their own
ever circling world
and they convinced her she couldn’t.

They called it grief, want, longing.
But my aunt saw her mother in the kitchen
Just days after she died, apron flying behind her
humming songs that toggled between
the life and death border but echoed nonetheless.
My aunt rolled over in her bed, shut her eyes,
and convinced herself that she was dreaming.

She heard voices, running horses,
in the ancient apple orchard she worked in.
Felt the ghost blow air into her ear
as she showered and was told it must have been someone
whistling outside.
This new land was scary enough without ghosts
so she chose to believe them.

And worlds of magic, psychics, what could have been,
twisters of colors that my aunts could have woven
fall upon my clumsy hands, my shrinking chest
and what I call my distracted intuition.

I don’t see anything,
but I convince myself I do.