Ghost

Ghost

My grandmother wore a white sheet on Halloween.

Black oxford stout-heeled shoes poked out from under the hem.

She walked with her familiar rock to side to side.

Her pale blue eyes glinted through the eye holes.

She was not carrying sweet candy;

She carried a loaf of bread.

The aroma of weak milky tea surrounded her.

When I ran to clasp her in my arms,

She was gone.

So I went home,

Waited,

And every child, “Trick or Treat!”, got a slice of rye toast

And a hot cup of tea.

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About alicebarrett

Small town writer
This entry was posted in Literature, Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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