Of Rondalla Street and Ghosts

I always meant to write a letter back to Rondalla Street

then all those years came and went and I was long gone,

frowning in the backseat

and I learned to love its stretch of bitumen and brick

from a safe,

shouting distance

like the one that got away.

There’s something foolish about that pining,

far-flung fondness

and the restless house too on Rondalla Street,

with its cracking paint and its rusty wind chimes

mourning my absence,

cracked and chimed

with the same foolish tenor in the hot air during the dry seasons.

The day I left Rondalla Street,

between the radio static and saying goodbye droned, “Que Sera, Sera”.

And whatever will be, will be

whether you stay or leave.

Only you’ll be somewhat mad, haunted and/or sentimental on rainy days

because everyone leaves something behind

at least once

and at the end.

Like your second cup of tea

around mid morning—

The forgetting becomes easy.

On Rondalla Street

had I stayed,

I might have married a jealous man

I might have planted orchids

only to watch them bloom twice yearly,

worn a gauzy night gown, black hair turned grey.

Pearlescent under God’s silver-streaked Big Dipper,

all the kids on the block

climbing up Banaba trees,

mistaking me for something spectral,

always whispering and having bad gut feelings

about the house that reeked of incense and cat piss

on Rondalla Street—

Growing old would have felt like watching my shadow lengthen.

Most shake a fist at the occasional door-knocker—

Three knocks is a Memento mori.

I might have died a cautionary tale,

time-worn, blind, deaf, a hag,

by a window,

left rotting for weeks,

bitter at the world,

and the people of Rondalla Street

could gather around for a ghost story.