She used to play the piano in the lounge room
Until her hands hurt too much, and she could no longer move her fingers across the keys.
Then, she spent her time by the large bay windows, letting the breeze cool her of an evening.
She only had a few months of that, then she died.
One morning I came to her room and knocked.
She was dead in her bed.
We buried her; I played some piano music from an expensive speaker.
What could I do with the piano?
There was nothing to do so I left it in the lounge room.
I sat in front of the bay window and let the breeze drift across me.
The house is empty and silent without her
I imagine her ghost in the room
But what frightens me most of all
Is that there are no ghosts.