There is nothing scary there,

it is only the shadows

sweeping across the floor, it is only

your antique grandmother

your spider-web grandfather.


In this attic filled with twilight

with the moon shimmering through the window like a button,

its dusty trunks and creaky floorboards

that dip, where the wind sneaks in

through all of the walls,


your real history fades away

once you are alone and yawning in bed.

We are ghosts,

people you loved when we were alive,

who now watch as you sleep in the attic

pocketing our cold hands.

We have come because we miss you

our grandchild, and know

that someone needs to watch over you.