The child sits cross-legged on the floor, listening to a story. The child hears the wail of a distant siren. As the siren’s screams approach, the child cowers. Suddenly, the siren stops; the room is quiet. The child shudders, enveloped in the silence.

The school bell rings. The child descends a long flight of stairs into the cold air. Goose bumps cover the child’s arms. The child climbs onto the back seat of the waiting car, legs outstretched. The child listens to the hum of the motor.

The child arrives home. The house is darkened and filled with the sounds of sobbing. "The baby’s been in an accident; the baby’s dead" wail the child’s parents. The child listens, wide-eyed. Admist the muffled voices, the unhearing child is whisked away from the house.

While the family weeps at the graveside, the child is sent outdoors . The child clambers over the backyard gym set, squirming onto a swing seat. The child’s bending knees set the swing in motion, pedaling slowly. The child listens, hearing only the creaking of the swing as it sways back and forth.

Afternoon shadows darken the yard. The child hurries into the house, running to the baby’s room. Yanking open the door, the child flees at finding the room stripped bare, picked clean as a bone. The room is empty, cold and silent. Nothing remains.

A generation later, the school stands, scarred and weathered. A short flight of stairs leads to the school entrance. The door creaks opens. Ghosts are everywhere. The knowing child stands apart, listening.

Francine Kubrin

2001