Forgotten Things
Bequest
You left me, sweet, two legacies,-
A legacy of love
A Heavenly Father would content,
Had He the offer of;
You left me boundaries of pain
Capacious as the sea,
Between eternity and time,
Your consciousness and me.
-Emily Dickinson
Prologue
The old building creaked on its own in the darkness with no loud footsteps to add to the noise. The floor boards were warped and slanted from the years of settling the castle-like structure had been through. It was an imposing presence in the daylight, imagine what it felt like at night. You could almost hear the poor place groan in protest to its existence, similar to the suppressed moans of the elderly in need of a long rest. The building was tired.
It could hear the storm approaching from the distance. The familiar giant rumblings in the stomach of the sky that had had its fill of moisture and needed to let it out. Lightning crackled around the ominous gray clouds that housed the storm in anticipation and excitement of the impending release of rain. The wind blew hard enough to knock the branches of trees that were almost as tall, and almost as aged as the building itself against the second-story windows. The weakening glass shook in the windowpanes but decided that one more piece of bad weather wasn’t enough to put them out of commission yet; they had survived storms much worse than this.
As the system moved closer the lightning grew brighter and bolder, licking flashing tongues of fire towards the earth for a brief taste. Rain began falling, lightly at first, then harder. Soon it was pouring. Inside the building you could hear the pounding of the water on the windows and roof. The large, black emptiness was briefly illuminated by the lightning strikes. The marble stairs took on a ghastly gray hue and, everything appeared to be only varying shades of black and silver in the pitch of the evening. The desolate silence was only interrupted by the pattering of rain and a smattering of thunder here or there. It surprised even the old building, restless and desperate for slumber, how different the noises of night were from those of the day. No rushing feet, no giggling voices, no stern lectures, or simple conversations. It seemed so lonely.
So did the sole figure lit up only briefly by the flashings of the storm in the tall, cathedral-like window. Almost as old as the building by now, and certainly as much a part of its history as the bricks comprising the walls of the structure themselves. Another crackle and the figure was gone, only a memory in the darkening night. One might have thought he’d have imagined the image if only someone were there. But there wasn’t. The only one left at this time of night was the old, tired building. Well, that...and the ghost.
* * *
Lisa Game, 1999
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