blood and brains and angel cake

Haunted house

If you live in a house:

You move in. You don't mind the musty smell in the basement or the peeling wallpaper. You let water pool in the dimples of the cracked concrete floors because even the mildew needs a home. You hang your own frames on the wilting walls but you don't hide the spots where the paint is bubbled from humidity. You love the ceilings even though they close in on you sometimes. The house, yes, is haunted, but a ghost-less home is lonely and this is nothing if not a home. The doorknob rattles and the floorboards creak and the attic hums and you tell yourself, this is the only way to live in a house. You have to love the corners and the gutters. You become the haunting.

If you visit a house:

You ask for perfection. A visit; a pristine photograph of the front porch (potted chrysanthemums) and the front door (fresh coat of white paint) and the front windows (glistening with glass cleaner); a tour that doesn't include the moldy basement or the squeaky stairs or the singing attic; a stay in the best room, in which the wallpaper has been ripped from the walls and the curtains have been dried stiff. The other bedrooms are boarded shut and say NO ENTRY. You are allowed to believe that they, too, are modern and easygoing. And they don't require any of that damned commitment! You are allowed to believe that the fridge contains something besides sugar free ketchup and half-eaten takeout. You are allowed to believe that the attic is not haunted. That ghosts aren't stuffed in the closet with sheets knotted around their throats.

A house, un-haunted, is not a home. You don't want to live here. You want a weekend stay and breakfast in bed. You didn't ask for spirits or trapdoors. Could anyone love a house with cobwebs in the cabinets?

I realized I am haunting the wrong house and you don't believe in ghosts.