Some memories stay with you not because they make sense—but because they don’t.
This poem recalls a strange moment from my childhood.

One photo. One absence. One chill that still lingers.

It was a simple country house—a peaceful, secluded home.
A family nest of brick and stone.

The age of that old domicile I’m sure was high,
for it had stood long enough to see horse and cart pass by.

Centuries had passed with the tick-tock of life,
without a moment of noteworthy strife.

But this house had a secret, of that I am sure.
Stick with me, dear reader, and I shall tell you more.

This home had a ghost that watched the children at play.
I know this to be true—because I remember the day.

Myself and two girls is what I recall,
on a bright, hot day in mid-September’s fall.

The beautiful garden was our world for the day—
a realm of wonder with no reason to stray.

We three played by an old rope swing,
smiling and happy for the fun it did bring.

At some point, unnoticed, a picture was taken.
When I think back now, I am somewhat shaken.

This was a time before instant gratification.
Photography took days before revealing its foundation.

But in time the pictures did arrive,
and with them, a question that sparked something alive:

“There should be three? You must be mistaken.”
For two is all that the camera had taken.

A child’s ruminations are no more than innocent fun.
To think of anything else would cause a shudder to come.

My memory has grown vague to that peculiarity,
and reminiscing brings no further clarity.

The years have rolled by since that strange to-do—
when three little children became two.