The Stillness of

I don’t believe in haunted houses, but I know about haunted hearts because I have one.

I first heard the poignant lyrics of “Haunted Heart” sung by Jo Stafford the year I was 17. I was obviously, not only young, but gay in the sense of being blithe and unencumbered with care.

My shoes were Capezios, and my dark hair was always tied back with a black velvet ribbon, and I had yet to meet the man of my dreams. My feet danced every time I heard music, and I naively wondered if my heart would ever be haunted.

Shirley Jackson was my author of choice, and from the day I read “The Lottery,” I devoured every word she wrote. Still I didn’t really believe in hauntings, either those of houses or of hearts. Life was yet too much fun for such dark thoughts.

Those days were quite long ago, and now only exist in the parchment of my memories. However, today a thoughtful email update from an old neighbor arrived and resurrected the song and the true reality of a haunted heart

Before many moons had passed, and the song was no longer on the top of the Lucky Strike hit parade, I did meet my Prince. Happily, I left the life I had known for 19 years, and began another chapter with him.

And that, too, was ever so long ago.

I soon stopped wearing Capezios, and cut my hair shorter. I no longer needed a ribbon to hold it. I suppose I also stopped dancing when I heard music.

The resonance of music still continued but with another cadence. The vibrations now embraced children’s voices, and laughter and all I now remember was the sound of love. The forgotten length of black velvet was replaced with a scarlet ribbon for a little one’s long blonde locks, and I still never thought about a haunted heart. Why? Certainly there was no need. My days were too busy, although no longer blithe, and qently many more moons drifted by ever so slowly but surely.

One dark day Shirley Jackson left our world leaving a treasure of her words behind. Our family grew and grew, while the music changed once again. The small white house we shared seemed to expand with their teen age presence and constant sounds of their laughter, limbs and levity. Then little by little, all the joyous sounds silenced, and soon after on a sad cloudy morning my prince left too, and I found myself alone in the dark quiet.

I remained for another eight years until one sunny September day a young woman came to look at the now quiet little white house. The next morning , a short note arrived. It merely said, “I felt the happiness in your home, and I would be grateful if my children could grow up there too”. And so it was. A few weeks later I left, and she and her young husband moved in.

Today’s email informed me that another child has now arrived to live in the little white house that was never haunted and as I read the message, words sung by Jo Stafford so long ago seemed to whisper in the wind,

“Dreams repeat a sweet but lonely song to me.”

And I knew I would never wish my haunted heart to be still.