There’s the little girl,
the shy one who hides
behind the banister
and peeks around corners.
The one waving to me from the dining room that first night
when I was unpacking dishes in the kitchen.
It was late, I looked up as I passed the door.
She was waving.
Then she was gone.
She comes out when there are guests,
curious and hovering at the edges of our conversation.
Sometimes they see her too.
And then there’s the dark one,
the one that looks like nothing so much
as a tall black shadow,
the one that feels to me
like an old woman,
draped in her dark shawls and disappointment,
watching with disapproval
from the bottom of the stairs
or the end of the long hallway
or as she leans over my shoulder tonight
while I write this down.