Footsteps follow me in the parking lot,
looking back I see only dead leaves turning in the breeze
—it must be the ghosts.
See I’d just finished crying with them in the car knowing
that where I was going one rarely gets a moment.
Baby heart beating, I head back to school one last time.
The drive produced some dark matter that only the beginning
of an end could conjure. I leave ghosts everywhere I go;
keeps my feelings fresh and lean.
The thought of leaving my father and the dog sitting together
in their growing deafness, moved me on the highway.
The ghosts were not satisfied.
“Once more, with feeling,” they whisper after I’ve parked the car.
Nostalgia jerks my bones around until I see every forgotten piece of myself
hidden in the shadow of my grown image.
Through a mirror made of vicious rain I relive all the moments
that, once a familiar routine, now are just memories
I may forget to remember.
Personal moonlight falls on my ghosts four years old. I leave them
in the parking lot as one would abandoned lovers.
The grass comes up and bares its neck to the wind.
Maggie McEvoy is a New York based writer and visual artist. Born and raised in the suburbs of the Hudson Valley, Maggie draws inspiration from the hidden stories and conflicts that exist inside family homes, as well as the struggles of young womanhood. She expands upon these themes through videos and performance art. She can be reached at maggiemcevoy.tumblr.com