Ghost Kiss

Deacon

     Lily. Her name is Lily. It fits her. Soft and beautiful. I listened to the whole conversation with her mom. Like any parent, her mom is worried about her being so far away in case something happens. I can understand that. I won't discuss how good it makes me feel to know that Lily isn't wanting a man right now.

     She's forgotten all about the knocking I was doing on the bathroom door. I was just trying to get her attention. I guess I did but once again it was interrupted and then shrugged off. I'm going to have to do something big.

     After fighting tooth and nail not to tug her bathrobe ever so slightly the entire time she was standing there. And then turning around, once again, as she got dressed. Why does she do this to me?

     She makes her way upstairs with cleaning supplies. I assume she's going to clean the bathroom first just like she did down here. My assumption is proven correct as she makes her way straight to the bathroom. About an hour and a half later she's done with the upstairs bathroom. I haven't stopped watching her once.

     In some ways, I take pleasure in watching her. In others, like when I see her babying her wrist, I'm completely wrecked. However, I was also very impressed because even though I know her wrist still hurts, she doesn't let that slow her down. She figures out a way to still carry out the task that needs to be done. It only increases the amount of respect I have for this woman.

     She walks into my grandmother's room and opens the closet door. I watch as she starts scooping up the boxes and then places them in the hallway. I realize then that she's chosen what room she wants to make hers. I'm heartbroken. I mean I don't blame her. My grandmother had the master bedroom and it was right across the hall from that bathroom which worked out well for her. But I hate that I finally have to say goodbye to her personal things.

     After moving all the boxes she takes the few dresses my grandmother liked to wear out of the closet and starts walking towards my room with them. Is she not throwing them away? I follow her to see what she's up to.

     She carefully pushes open my door. I can't blame her for being cautious based on her experience in this room thus far. But she makes it inside slowly and walks to the closet, opens it, and hangs my grandmother's dresses in my closet with my things. She must just want everything together for now so when she comes back upstairs with a trash bag she can grab it all at once.

     She then grabs all the boxes that are in the bottom of my closet and moves those out into the hallway. I'm confused. Is she cleaning out both rooms? I mean I guess eventually she'd have to make her way to my room and clean it out. I guess I was just hoping to have my stuff for a while longer. I guess not. This is my new reality. I'm going to now be in a house that will have not a shred of evidence that I or my grandmother ever existed.

     It takes her about an hour to sweep and dust in my grandmother's bedroom. I guess I should stop calling it that. In reality, it hasn't been my grandmother's bedroom in a decade. She moves my grandmother's old dusty bed out into the hallway and props the mattress, box spring, and headboard against the wall. I'm saddened watching her struggle to move it. I'm not sure which I feel worse about, my grandmother's stuff being discarded or the fact that she's in pain because of me while doing it. She is keeping my grandmother's dresser, I realize.

     How is she going to move her bed up here by herself with an injured wrist? Now I understand why her mom might be saying she needs to meet a nice man. Someone that can help her when she needs it and take care of her and take her on nice dates.

     It can't be me.