By Cristina Sills
There is nothing scary there,
it is only the shadows
sweeping across the floor, it is only
your antique grandmother
your spider-web grandfather.
In this attic filled with twilight
with the moon shimmering through the window like a button,
its dusty trunks and creaky floorboards
that dip, where the wind sneaks in
through all of the walls,
your real history fades away
once you are alone and yawning in bed.
We are ghosts,
people you loved when we were alive,
who now watch as you sleep in the attic
pocketing our cold hands.
We have come because we miss you
our grandchild, and know
that someone needs to watch over you.