Patricia's Haunted House

My house in New Orleans used to be haunted by just an unnamed ghost who called out to my children when they were small, and occasionally tread the stairs late at night. Now it is I who haunt my house, on a daily basis. I walk into the front door, down the hallway and turn to the front room on the left, where we lounged to watch television. It's quiet in there now. I see the family photographs all over the place, as well as the the plaques and drawings my children made when they were little. My kitchen, I notice is more of a mess than usual, due to the remains of the big birthday party we had at our home the night before we fled. In my bedroom, my bed remains unmade, and my books are still scattered all over the place.

I see the santes I used to collect as well as the statue of the Sacred Heart my grandmother gave me many years ago. I left him, along with the City's Patroness, Our Lady Of Prompt Succor, in charge of my house. Good call. My living room still looks good, in my mind, and my son's bedroom is still jumbled up, I see, as it has always been. We have an area of our house that used to be a slave quarter, and outside the windows you can see the palm trees that grew so large so quickly. Because I go only in spirit, it's easy to sit in the heat, in my meditation garden with Budda, who reposes amidst the ferns.

I used to complain that we had too much stuff. We did. Now we have just enough.