It was out of season, and the sign at the farmhouse said No Vacancies, but they made an exception. So, I hung my hat on my great-great-great grandfather’s peg and slept in the room he died in. His dust was in the corners and between the floorboards.
I felt an affinity with Old George. He had been a farmer and the son of a blacksmith, as am I. But then, he wasn’t Old George. His wife had died at thirty, and he at thirty-five. Long ago, yet not old. I’ll be seventy-two this year.
I slept well that night. No ghosts.
Dazzling expression arouses curiosity. Nice it is, Avery.
This is a good one!
This piece centers around a premise I think many can relate: visiting a place of an ancestor. I wanted to know why this mattered to the hero and what they gained from the visit.
Nice memory piece. I could relate to ancestors dying so young and me now at 80.
A lovely calm and reflective piece
Wonderful.
I love his dust in the floorboards. And how this ends….although seems the speaker would have welcomed George as a ghost, no?
I suppose he might have, but he doesn’t believe in ghosts