My grandmother is a haunted house. When she moves, she creaks like a stair. When she talks, her hands open wide like windows, letting in the lavender night. Shadows fall upon her arches and skylights.
Ghosts cloud her eyes and tremble her fingers. They turn the milk. They pinch her handbag and her teacup. In her distant rooms, children play. If you want to hear them, you must cup an ear to her wall and be patient.
Someday, soon, all the doors will be pushed shut, and the windows veiled. Ivy will grow into the bricks. The curtains will fall, the carpets will rot, and the rooms will be perfumed with mildew, and silence.