Six Days

I am at the bottom of a deep dark well.  Even though I yell until I’m hoarse, I know they do not hear me.

I mutter to myself, “two more weeks.  Not even…six days…just six days more.”

They peek down at me, grins on their grubby faces.

I call up to them, “I need you to listen to me!”

But they don’t.  Instead they go back to their games.  They play with ghosts – and you can’t get the ghosts out.

“Six days more, and then it won’t matter…just six days more.”

A shadow cuts off my light.  I look up and see the big one.

He says, “Are you coming?” but I know he means, “We all know you won’t be there.  Everybody knows you never come.”

I want to come, but when I try to tell him about the six days he shakes his head and walks out of sight.  He doesn’t believe me; he thinks the six days are an excuse to stay away.

“They have work to do!” I call out as loud as I can.  No one answers me.  They are not listening.

I am in the dark well.  I will be here every year from February until August, and sometimes in the winter.

Six days pass slowly, and then begin again with more.

And still they play with ghosts in the yard – because you can’t get the ghosts out.


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