Could I follow, Lady Journey?
Could I follow where you go?
Could I jot down all the wonders that I know you're going to show?
Could I watch, Lady Wander?
I wonder wither where you roam.
I'd map your movements, map your footsteps like the wrinkles on my palm.
Could I whisper, Lady Listen?
Tell me, how would you respond?
Would my words come back as echoes like shouts across a pond?
Could I rest now, Lady Weary?
Could I slumber by your side?
I could sleep beneath the stars and have all the time to bide.
Once upon a time there was a wanderer. A mourner. A moonbeam dancer.
Such a delicate flower, some said. Fairer than most, they proclaimed. But was this fair flower as lovely in death?
Was the willow form maiden pleasant to look at after the accident?
Ghosts rarely are. It's not their way. To be a ghost is to be a monster. But a quiet one, a insubstantial fear, a cold breath and nothing more.
Ann Lyn Matter was not a pretty ghost. Ann Lyn Matter did not deal with the accident well. But the dead rarely deal with their own passing well.
Ann had been a beauty, a flower, the kind of women you can't help but stare at. She had been clever and charming and was on her way to becoming a bride.
And now she was dead.
It had happened on the eve of her wedding night. As most tragedies do. What better time for a misfortune to come than one the brink of ones happiness?
Her fiance had come for tea and after the meal they had gone walking in the garden. In a sheltered nook, surrounded by lilac bushes and dying elder trees, they had sat down for a bit. If pressed, Ann could recollect the exact texture of her fiance's coat, the feel of velvet and linen on her cheek.
A well. In the middle of the garden. It had been out of service for years but Ann suddenly craved the taste of fresh water.
A lean. Ann had leaned over the rough stone lip of the well, too far it seemed. As her hand touched the worn bucket rope, her fiance's had reached out to steady her.
Water. Ann would never need water again. She still remembers the feeling of flight, downward flight. Of wet clothing pulling her deeper into the well's depths. How her betrothed turned away as soon as she'd lost her balance.
Ann had not planned to be a ghost. Not like that. To this day she still torments over the moment of falling, did her husband-to-be push or steady?
No one will know.
And now Ann is a moon beam dancer. A twilight guest. Her wandering path is littered with ripped lilac buds. She waits for him.
Could I watch, Lady Wander?
