Some residents have no name, no closet, no chair at the table

You’re moving into a new house; write about the people or person who lived there before you.

February 13 prompt, “A Writer’s Book of Days”

When you are a child, everything seems larger than it really is, including houses.

And when you are a child, everything seems subject to imagination and mystery. The world, when you are a child, seems full of endless possibilities.

And dreams? Why, yes, of course they can come true. One doesn’t doubt the Infinite as a child, neither the Possible. Even Life itself is but a vast unmarked sea of possibilities and adventures and creations of our own making.

We do not doubt what is Unseen and Untouchable. We know it as surely as we know that there IS a man in the moon and he IS smiling upon us and that if we dig long enough with our spoons into the dirt in the yard, we WILL reach China!

That’s how it was for me anyways.

Our house is big, from a child’s perspective. Three bedrooms and all that. Plus a half-acre of yard work and upkeep that my father, cruel taskmaster that he was, ensured was completed every week by his trio of slaves, let’s call it for now, comprising me, my sister and our mother.

Aside from the very occasional shindig, a happy home it was not. The home, however, had known happiness before us.

Their name was the Sheriffs. As a girl of 6 when we moved in, I do not recall much about them; their name, however, sticks and too that the Sheriffs family included a young boy.

My mother. Now my mother, though quite an emotionally sick and dangerous woman in a good many ways, did have her positive points, including a developed sense of intuition. One might not call her psychic; however, her hunches and sensibilities of things unseen were accomplished — uncanny even. To this day, those are attributes I most fondly acknowledge and remember.

We lived in that house for about 10 years (I from age 6-16). It’s the longest that we as a family lived anywhere and that I personally have lived in my nearly 58 years.

After we’d moved (to the “evil house” in northern California — another story), my mother told me something that I’d never heard during those 10 years in the house prior, something that I’ll remember until the day I die.

Before selling their house to us, the Sheriffs, their little boy, he had leukemia. Severely, from accounts. Whether he would survive was a tremendous question mark and agonizing, as one could imagine, for the family.

The boy did make it and in time the family let go of their house. A house that, my mother knew, as I learned all those years later, was inhabited by a ghost.

My mother saw the ghost from time to time. During our residency, she never spoke of it to me or my sister (far as I know) or, dollars to donuts, my father.

But a ghost she felt and saw. A benevolent ghost, she said. One who meant no harm and never posed a threat.

When we moved to the “evil house” in northern California, the ghost did not come with, my mother said. It was never seen or felt again. My mother speculated, nee concluded, and rightly so, that the ghost was not only attached to the house we’d vacated but had played a part in healing the young boy of his illness.

As a strong medium myself, I can attest to the validity of the afterlife and of continuing existence of spirits of creatures who have passed on.

Sometimes, nee often, the person(s) who lived there before you didn’t live there at all. Not in our 3-dimensional plane anyways. Yet their presence is as real, if not more so, than ours in flesh, and too more enduring.

Sometimes the best blessing that a house can have lies not in the bottles of wine, bouquets, potted plants or friendly gatherings gifted in a housewarming party.

The best blessing lies in a being unseen to the naked eye yet fully felt in spirit and heart. A former etheric inhabitant who bestows kindness, protection, gentility and healing upon the space and me within it … in a spiritual stream of goodness that is never taken from me … never withheld … and never ending. Such beings who reside in a space before me and may or may not go with me when I vacate truly make a house a loving home.