Requiem for the Old House’s Ghost

Requiem for the Old House’’s Ghost , By Ferry Lyra B. Fronda

The wintry wind of the night caressed my cheeks as my soles traced the path of the place that once reared me. Passing through its tottering door, walls splotched with the naivety of life bled ruins of bygones in these dust-covered halls. I braved gravity to reach the rooftop over a twirling stair on the brink of collapsing. The screeching of the rats hinted at an orphaned edifice—without a breath. This place has evolved profoundly.

With stoic grace, the moon bathed me in its light as if it yearned to blanket my thoughts. Stretching to the terrace, I roved at the paint-stained balustrades and the solid ground that once carried these pirouetting feet like a sentinel. Everything was at my fingertips in this space. Yet, at that moment, it was devoured by air, leaving me bare.

Relished memories and old dreams protruded from every nook and cranny: the kids speeding through the halls pretending to be superheroes, the walls that relished the family’s joys in frames, and the rooftop where I basked in the moonlight as the wind sang the trees to sleep. This familiar haven encased little promises, little slips, and little phases one wished to tell.

The nostalgia rushed in as I laid my eyes on the doorstep where warm, tight hugs once awaited me whenever I earned five stars on my tests or when I was simply having a tough day—the gentle hands that touched without wounding. Still, I cannot fathom how my old, frail body could have held so much love and hope. This misty air missed the soap-film bubbles I once blew in the wide grass while reveling in the moments before they burst. Oh, how I can go on a day boasting about those trivial wins!

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Requiem for the Old House’’s Ghost By Ferry Lyra B. Fronda

Buried in my rapt musing, I searched for the discarded tires that lay beneath the layers of soot and mud. They once carried me through the bumpy alleys—leaving me bruised but unbound.

I died in the clutches of guilt, which formed claws and tugged my mind incessantly. I died on the mighty edge of youth while the birds cried. I died in the passion of naive lips caressed by deceit. At this point, I have learned to build my own tombs.

At the stroke of midnight, I felt myself fade from afar. Being here struck some turmoil within, reminding me of my spirit that had been laid to rest.

The chaos is what makes it—above and beyond what my heart could ever hold. It houses memoirs of youth; it both fears and celebrates its demise, mocking destiny.

Tonight is another new moon bound to shift phases and will end when the universe decides to do so. What life uncovers, time will soon recover.

So let there be no arias of misery, neither repressed spirits draped over the casket of history nor whimpering harps of regret.

As the ominous clouds shrouded the pitch black sky and the wind whipped my unbound hair in deafening gusts, my soles traced the path towards a renewed phase—heavy from the farewell’s touch parting between my skin.

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