I drove by an abandoned house on the night of the super moon last month. All its windows were gaping at me. If the house wasn’t haunted it ought to be.
I have an image in my head of the ghost of a woman. She looks out of an upstairs windows. The house used to be her house. She admires the moon and searches for the remnants of the garden she had planted long ago. She had a moonlight blossom of all white blooms for nights such as this one, for moons such as this one. She sees one white blossom, a peony, reflecting the moonlight but it is being choked out by the weeds and brambles. It shimmers and glows in the moonlight though, a ghost itself in the garden that used to be.
The moonlight catchers her too, there in the moonlight as she stands in the gaping window pane. But as soon as I see her shimmer, the moon is obscured by a dusky cloud and her shimmer-y presence is thrust back into the dark depths of house. She enjoys her brief shimmer in the beam of the moon but dies a little more each time the moon is obscured behind a cloud; she feels herself fading away, just as her garden that used to be.
Jacquelyn's Space 
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