A Second Visit from my Ghost

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This is a really long post, but if you have the time to read it, I think it may give you goose bumps as it is merely a recount of actual events in my life and the connection back to my sad little ghost. I cried as I wrote this I pray she can rest in peace now.

Last night, lying in my bed waiting for sleep to envelop me, pictures ran through my mind like an out of control slide show. For half an hour, images flashed past me, not giving me the opportunity to grasp onto any, or to rest my weary mind. Perhaps it was the fever that was tainting my body, and I tried every sleeping position in vain to invite the tranquillity of a dream. Lying on my stomach, an image came to rest in my thoughts. She was familiar to me; a ghost that had made her presence known four years ago.

I had awoken from a deep slumber one night. The house was quiet, my partner asleep next to me. Not a noise came from the bedrooms of my 4 boys. My eyes were drawn to the hall just outside the door of my bedroom. At the end of the curtains that covered the windows looking down onto the front yard, the figure of a little girl was clearly in my sight. The cool rays of moonlight gave me an unmistakable view, but in my slumbered confusion I thought my eyes were surely playing tricks on me. I closed my eyes, testing my reality, but when I opened them again, she was still there.http://chanyeevon.blogspot.com.au/

Her face was turned away from me, her head bowed. From the slant of her shoulders and the bow in her neck, I could see that her head was in her hands. Quiet little shakes rocked her body and I knew that she was crying. Her dark, straight, hair fell to just between her shoulder blades and the moonlight behind silhouetted her, perhaps, 8 year old figure against the flimsy white nightgown that she wore.

I lay in bed and watched her for what seemed an age. I knew her to be a ghost and yet I didn’t have any fear. Strangely, I eventually fell asleep and awoke to the normal happy weekend sounds of noisy, happy boys. I hurriedly scribbled a note in my journal about my sad little visitor and went on with my day.

Two months later, almost to the day, the boys were with their Father for the weekend and my partner and I at dinner with friends. My mobile phone rang at about 11pm, a harsh sound piercing the laughter and company of good friends. Against my usual etiquette, I felt compelled to answer and put the phone to my ear. I heard the frantic shouting of our neighbour, “Is there anyone in the house? Are the children with you? It’s all up in flames!” I couldn’t even grasp what he was saying and had to ask him to repeat himself, however, once I understood, I assured him that the house was empty. This is the type of man heroes are made of. He was ready to brave the flames to rescue my family and even though the need didn’t exist, this took nothing away from the brave act he was on the verge of committing.

We drove the 10 minutes to our house in abject silence, knowing that our world had just been turned inside out. Driving up towards the T-intersection where we lived, we entered a world of chaos. Six fire engines lined our street, police, neighbours, reporters and flashing lights. The fire was under control and we apprehensively approached the Fire Chief to find out our state of affairs, and then sat on the curb in a daze for what seemed an eternity.

The back of the house, including the kitchen had been gutted and the fire had spread through the roof tainting all of our belongings. What the fire hadn’t destroyed, the water gushing from the 6 hoses had. We called my parents and asked if we could stay them. None of it seemed real and when I woke up the next morning it took some time for it all to register in my mind.

That was four years ago. We have recovered, none of us were hurt and thankfully, my photo albums were left untouched by the flames. Last night, when my mind rested on the same image of my little ghost, I took her by the hand and invited her into a dream. She showed me an old house, surrounded by orchards; the same place that our house used to be. She was working late at night around the home, stoking the cast iron kitchen stove and preparing a meal for her Father who was coming home late. Responsibilities far beyond her years.

She had allowed the fire to get too low whilst trying to settle her baby brother. Now realising the time, she shoved more kindling and coal in the fire hole and left the stove door open to help the flames take hold. Distracted by her desire to have her father’s dinner hot when he arrived, she leant over the stove to stir the pot.

Flames licked out of the stove and caught her flimsy night gown alight. Neither had she had a chance to fill the water pails from downstairs and within moments this darling of a girl was present in the most unimaginable nightmare of her life. Her screams of agony went unheard and she died in a rigour of pain on the floor by the stove.

Sadly, as the fire started to brightly burn, some of the kindling burnt away its balance, and fell to the floor. It smouldered for a while, before it worked its way into a frenzy; eventually taking hold of the house.

The father arrived home to find his two children dead and his life in ruins. His wife had died in childbirth 10 months earlier, and all that was precious to him was gone. He walked over to the barn with dull boot purpose, clutched his gun to his chin and blew his brains out.

In my dream, I saw the pain, grief and guilt etched on “my darling’s” beautiful face. I took her in my arms and carried her out to the lounge room of my new house, drew a chair close to the dying embers of the fire and cradled her in my arms. I gently rocked her with my hand supporting the back of her petite head; my fingers tangled in the strands of her soft hair. I whispered to her that it wasn’t her fault and she shouldn’t hold the responsibility for the tragedy of her baby brother and fathers’ lives in her heart. She wept – no sobbed, and I silently held her close. I stayed with her like that until she slept peacefully in my arms, her body relaxed and her mind at peace.

When I awoke in my bed this morning, I remembered the details of this dream with uncanny detail. Just before I sat down to write this account, I went to check my journal to find the date of our first encounter. I stared in disbelief; it was the 25th August 2008. Four years ago to the day.

I hope that I was able to help her find the peace she deserves.

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“Phoetry”

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On the edge of sleep, I see a picture, 

Then add another, to make it richer.

In the early hours of this morning I lay in bed thinking about this type of poetry. I’m going to call it “Phoetry”. In that moment before sleep, try to grasp and stay hold the image that comes into your mind. Whatever comes first. Then add another to it. What would come next? Don’t try to make sense of it; just try to remember for the next day. I found I could only retain two as I would then forget the details of the first one. You might be able to do more.

I’ve always wished I could photograph my dreams, or scenes from my dreams. Perhaps this is the closest thing to it. When you search for your photos (I went into flikr, try not to get distracted from your initial “vision”.

I’d love to see your “Phoetry”. Good, bad, sad, beautiful or indifferent…just go with it.

NIGHTMARES

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One thing I strongly connect with my Primary School years is the nightmares I used to have. It was only a couple of years ago that I linked those dreams with what happened in that little room at my Aunt and Uncles’ home. The dreams stopped when I went to High School.

I have always been able to dream that I could fly. It always seems so natural in the moment…and disappointing when I woke up; but the flying dreams that haunted me in that time were paralysing.

In Primary School, I was bullied for my bucked teeth, giraffe legs and I’m sure, my inability to relate to other girls my age. The dream always started with me flying over the oval at Mont Albert Primary School, looking down over the swap card games, elastics, gang chasey and knuckles. I was never very good at any of the girl games. With three brothers, there was no-one to swap cards or play elastics with, and there weren’t enough of us to play gang chasey. I was always included in my brothers’ antics but it was either brandy, cowboys and indians, soccer, hide and seek or cricket. My brothers were my best friends.

I was at peace in the sky, on my own. It was the master of myself, and the sky. I could hover, somersault, float and shoot straight up into a cloud and catch a handful of “fairy floss”.

Always though, my dream would change. The clouds and sky would become black and when I looked down I could see the dark shadow of thunder clouds on the grass. Where, before the sun was shining, a cold wind would suddenly be chilling me to the core. Expecting to  see my friends playing below, I would now find the playground empty. I hadn’t heard the bell go, and  I was left on my own. The chill had taken away my power and now I could barely even fly more than a few feet off the ground.

It was then I would sense that I was being chased. At first, I felt safe because I could fly and he could not, but my confidence soon turned to fear as I realised that I couldn’t get far enough off the ground to completely escape. As the dream progressed, I would always end up flying over a small mound of grass at the side of the oval. The dark shadow of a man would run easily up the mound but I was never able to gain any more height.

Just as he was about to grab my foot, I would wake up. Each time I had that dream, it was the same. For a very long time.

 

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