Her

What looks like an average bedside to most is evidence of our house ghosts to me. You see, our home is nearly 100 years old, a Sears and Roebuck kit home painted pink until just recently. There's got to be more story lathe and plastered into these walls than the average walker-by would guess.

Word is that the second owners were two ladies, owners of a cigar shop. I imagine them sitting down to tea on our porch on a sunny morning, or perhaps sampling a choice cigar and scotch, taking in the traffic along the main street. I don't know what became of them, but I figure two women living on their own during the early twenties must have sparked a bit of chatter in town.

So, when the bedside lights flicker on or off by themselves, I like to think it's them, lighting the way, waking us to see more clearly in the wee hours of the morning. Maybe it's them coming home after a particularly fabulous gala at the nearby ballroom. Maybe it's them reminding me we're never done, we women.