An ancient house looms
decorated in gold that needs undoing
carpeted kitchen

carpeted bath
pink sinks and basins
this is to be our home?

My eight year old mind
already teaming with ghosts
and stories from supposed friends
of the doctor who one time resided
and the patients who never made it out alive

I keep my cool
but am terrified.

There are lots of folks around
shuffling boxes
men sipping on beer
telling me to stay out of their way

There is wall paper to pick
paint colors to choose
and for the first time ever
I have the say
as long as its pink
and only pink

The bustle, the hustle
near drives me mad
knowing this is where we will be
forever and a day
in my eight year old mind

I clutch my book
building the nerve
to open the one door I've yet to dare

That was his office
...the whispers of those supposed friends
That was where he wrote DEATH certificates
...whispers of the adults who refuse to grow up
and get their kicks out of scaring the crap out of
chubby little eight year old girls.

Stubborn even then
I remember the clammy cool
of the cut glass knob
the squeak
of the solid wood...real wood,
door swinging on its ancient hinges
and the light of the sun
shining upon a cherry wood bookshelf
overflowing with treasure upon treasure
and the smell
books, books, books,
and mason jar upon mason jar of buttons!

It was hours before they found me
hours of building cities
towers, WORLDS
hours of page after page
of mildewed stories
and ancient colored pictures
of the human anatomy
and tales of war

I feel asleep among books and buttons
and spent the first night
in the old doc's house
as nothing more than a ghost
...until they found me.