“I need twice as much space,
and half as many things,
a well written verse that I can sing.
Twice as much space,
and a new set of strings;
these are the ghosts,
I made myself.”
As children the three of us would build those kinds of forts you make with blankets and chairs backed into each other; tunnels added with use of TV tray tables received as a gift the previous Christmas from relatives rarely seen.
There was one flashlight shared between us, and we would pass it off to each other when it was our turn to tell a scary story. Sometimes we would lie on our backs, our feet outstretched and poking a little outside our suburban campsite.
The light and shadows cast would play in-between the crinkles and bends in the blankets, and we would point out shapes as if they were a ghostly set of clouds above us.
Our parents were all in the front room, music playing loud, and their drunken laughter competing with the vinyl spun sounds. Sometimes I would try to incorporate the songs into my story, ghost carved from Fleetwood Mac and Joni Mitchell lyrical refrains.
Sometimes I wish we had written them all down.
These are the Ghosts :: The Bees