Ghosts and Serenades
Why do dogs howl at the moon? Why do cows moo when a simple hello will suffice? Why does a cockerel crow in the morning but never utter a word at night? The sounds we make define us; she sings to ghosts.
The beauty of midnight in a secluded mansion miles away from anywhere is the sanctity of silence it provides. There should be no reason for discourse nor dispute. And yet, I have.
I cannot silence her, you see. I dare not silence her. Not now. The ghosts gather beneath my sister’s window every evening when lesser folk have gone to sleep. Amassing in wavering fronds of white-sheeted motion, they struggle to be corporeal if only for a second just to hear her sing.
I have asked her why and still do, but my sister claims not to know she does so. When I say, why? She says, I can’t, I’m asleep.
That beggars the question that if my sister is indeed asleep, a girl notorious for her quiet demeanour, why would song come to her only in the midst of dreams? I do not have the answers.
I have listened to her and am listening now, as I make these notes beneath a moonlit sky, but still, I am clueless to her draw. Her words are more melody than correct phrasing aimed at an individual audience. I hear a lost lark or perhaps an elaborate nightingale. The ghosts who paw at her window frames hear something else entirely.
I have vowed to sit here night after night to protect my sister from those who would steal her songs. No ghost of unknown origin shall harm the beautiful soul, the pure innocence of she who is my sister, not whilst I have any say in the matter. I will sit here forever if I must, for all eternity and beyond. And, as I struggle to remember the last time I have ever seen the sunrise, I muse over one last salient detail: have I?