… I lived on Willow Street in Pacific Grove, CA — at the top of the hill, in a studio on top of a house. I could hear the ocean tumbling against the shore at night. And back then, circa 1990, the foghorn by the coast still echoed its mournful cry. And it was oh so cold up there in winter — the cost of gas to heat even a studio apartment was painfully high. So on sleepless, lonely nights it was just me and a tabby cat named Heidi under the blankets on top of a borrowed futon. There were lots of windows and a real kitchen — it was a haven for me and my broken heart.
I drove past there this last week while on a long overdue visit — the outside door that led to the stairs of my flat is gone and it looks like the building has been reconverted into a single-residence house.
But the ghosts are still there — I could feel them. They haunt the street and me, my heart — the memories, the woman I used to be, the tears I cried.
(c) September 2012 by Phyllis J. Hanniver
All Rights Reserved