There's the house. I spotted her last week and I followed her to this house. It's a nice house. If 'nice' means anything.
It does to some people.
It does to my doctor. ”What about all the good things in life, what about the nice things?” she asks me. And I don't know what to answer, because I know what 'good' is, but the meaning of 'nice' has escaped me. I know 'beautiful' but I don't know 'pretty'. I know 'sorrow', but most people I meet seem to turn to sentimentality.
There she is. Right there, in the window. There's a tree also, a Christmas tree, as bright and beautiful as any Christmas tree in any house could ever be.
She can't be more than eight, maybe nine. Beautiful hair, shining eyes, the damp skin, hot from running around in the snow.
Since I first spotted her I have been watching her every day. And today she was playing in the park; she was alone for a moment, and I stepped out, and called to her, and she looked at me and she smiled, and when I held out the lollypop she looked back to see if anybody was watching. And then she smiled again, and she began to come closer, and I waved and held out the lollypop, and she knew that she shouldn't, but she couldn't resist, and it was so close, so close.
And then somebody called her, and she left, and I had to sit for a while, pretending I was feeding the ducks, not looking at them, not moving, just being 'normal.'
'Normal' is another word my doctor likes.
I don't care about 'normal.'
Not now, not here, now that I've climbed the big tree in the garden, and am totally concealed by darkness, and free to watch her.
She's running around the tree. Joyful, playful, happy, and I'm not thinking about that christmas past, she's the only thing in my head right now, nothing disturbing, nothing worrying.
And then she looks out the window and points, and people come to the window, and I hurry down the tree, and head home, running all the way. I'm not going to get arrested again. My doctor told me to explain it to them, but what's the point? I've got my former sentence already. They wouldn't understand.
I reach my house, and it's dark, of course, dark and empty, nobody there except the ghost. She stares at me from the mantelpiece as I enter the living room. I sit down in my chair and all the memories come back; the Christmas Past. The car, the crash, the guilt. The little girl thrown out through the windscreen, lying in the street, me screaming, me crying, why her, why not me, God, why not me, why her.
Since then I haven't known 'normal'. I know 'beautiful' but I don't know pretty. I know 'good' but I don't know 'nice'. I know sorrow.
I know loss.
I know ghosts.