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<br><br><center>*Where there is a woman there is magic...
A woman with a moon falling from her mouth,
roses between her legs and tiaras of Spanish moss—
this woman is a consort of the spirits.*
Ntozake Shange</center>





<br><br>Jessica Skye, a Thirties’ actress with Harlow looks, is not really dead. She haunts me continually—partly because her huge dark eyes stare at me from her portrait above the mantel—and partly because she inhabits a virtual wing of my house.

I access her abode through a portal in my basement that outwardly appears to be a wine cellar, but actually conceals a Thirties’ speak-easy. Behind some swing-out shelves lies a second door that leads to a part of the house that is not of this world.

And tonight I’ve made up my mind to go back and be with her.



<br><br>I eat a light supper sitting in the front room by the light of the fire. It’s basic, if not a Spartan repast—Swiss cheese on rye and a glass of Shiraz.

I know—with my history of alcohol abuse I shouldn’t, but ever since I explored the basement speak-easy and stumbled upon that portal to the past, I’ve needed the occasional drink to calm my tremors.

No, they’re not DT’s—they’re more a distant thunder—a reverberation that pulses inside me every time I remember the dark surprise in Jessica’s eyes.



<br><br>I can see her still.

Sometimes, I tremble so much, I have to squeeze my fingers tight into a ball and scrunch my eyes closed and try not to see that white petal in a dark sea—Jessica in the garden below, staring up at me.

A turreted, second-floor room that doesn’t exist in the time or space—how can it be?

But I was there! I know it’s real—as real and palpable as this longing for a woman that’s been dead half a century but has managed to ignite a conflagration within me.

<br><br>The rain has stopped and I wander outside and stand on my front lawn.

It’s cool and there’s a slight breeze. I look up at the manse Jessica built—a monolith towering above me—a Cubist house with curving lines, now illumined with the aura of a full moon about to crest the roof line



<br><br>It’s romantic standing here beneath the dark oaks, listening to the rustling leaves, and watching the Moon break free and beckon to me.

A wild delight surges through me. I can sense Jessica near. She’s on the grounds with me and the darkness provides just enough obscurity to soften the stark actuality of the everyday and liberate her spirit.

I begin to shiver and can take no more. I force myself to go in and shut the door on my fantasies, but it’s futile—I can’t shut her out completely, because nightly, she haunts my dreams.

<br><br><center>© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>

<br><br><center>[Photo]( https://wallpaperstock.net/windy-day-woman--field_wallpapers_44684_1024x768_1.html)</center>

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