The summer nights were long and warm.
My skin tingled and my blankets curled at the end of my bed.
My sister often slept by my side, like a frightened little kitten
And I would often push her as far as I could.
Father would come every night. He stood under the white paneled door way
and prayed with me and my sister.
I mumbled the words absent-mindedly, but either way I felt at ease.
Somehow the words I did not understand protected me.
Those nights are long gone now.
That home is a town away, but I must travel through monstrous forests and lonesome deserts to reach it.
My room is vast, and only I sleep there. My sister rarely visits my room, and Father never comes.
The summer nights are long and hot.
The blankets no longer curl at my feet, but instead tightly bound my body, like a cocoon.
Even when sweat begins to bead at the nape of my neck, I remain tightly wound.
It is my only protection.
In mid-July I visit the home I grew up in.
Nothing remains, but the dust that dances in the moonlight and the ghosts of my past.
Nothing. Only ghosts.