But you are busy arranging bonsai in Burma teak cupboards to notice.
I bring a few words in a velvet envelope but you put it away without a glance in your rosewood box.
I dive after it and I am soon lost in the myriad cubbyholes and draws and secret walkways.
I forget why I'm there in the first place.
You shut the box and I'm lost in quiet and dust.
The dust of centuries and ghosts of the past breathe gently next to me.
What does it feel like to be almost forgotten, to be utterly cast aside?
The ghosts know and now they speak.
In whispers.
Amongst themselves.
I am not even worthy of a banshee’s shriek.
