Jeanne Phillips-Barron
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The Prose of Jeanne Phillips-Barron
Anna Burrough's Ghost
By Jeanne Phillips-Barron
illustrations by Ida France
Ivan Burroughs sold his farm,
That haggard, hilly ground,
So Anna packed her memories
And she and Ivan moved to town.
There was just the two of them,
The children all were grown
And the little house in town was fine,
But it somehow wasn't home.
Poor Anna grew despondent,
The winter took its toll,
And that spring he buried Anna
'Neath the trees on Cooper's Knoll.
We found the farm years later
In a state of sad disgrace,
So the owner said he'd trade the rent
For fixin' up the place.
The old house has a hungry look,
Its paint had long since peeled;
The grass was high; the gate hung loose,
And the well-winch squawked and squealed.
 We surveyed reluctantly
Not knowing where to begin
And supposed it'd take all summer
Just to make it nice again.
Inside out we polished,
All day long we cleaned
And went to bed so tired that night
We didn't even dream.
But sometime after two O' clock,
I felt something in the room.
The air was sweet with lilac
And they'd yet to even bloom.
Then I heard the shuffling
Of footsteps on the stair,
And the heavy, rhythmic creaking
Of our old rocking chair.
I listened 'til I fell asleep,
For hours, so it seemed.
And convinced myself when I awoke
That I had only dreamed.
I told this to my husband,
Half expecting to be teased.
Instead he looked concerned
And a little ill-at-ease.
He said he'd heard some stories,
Until now he'd paid no mind,
About four families who'd moved in
And out in six months' time.
They, too, had heard the footsteps,
Sniffed the lilac in the air,
And often in the wee, still hours,
Had heard the rocking chair.
To set his mind at ease I said
“She's harmless I suppose ...”
Knowing, without being told,
That it was Anna Burrough's ghost.
“She has a right to stay,” I said,
“After all it was her home...
And I guess from what they tell me,
The only one she's ever known.
They say she was an orphan
With an empty, troubled life,
'Til Ivan Burroughs bought this farm
And took her for his wife.”
So we reasoned after talking
That there'd be no harm to tell
If we decided we would stay
And Anna stay as well.
The years passed oh so quickly by.
Our children numbered three
And each one came to love in time,
The soul they could not see.
Then one spring we bought a house
And packed to move away.
I can' t begin to tell you
How it was that final day.
All day long I sensed her there
So near at every turn.
She knew I dreaded leaving,
Her loneliness, my concern.
I only hoped whoever came
Would share her kind of trust
And be as comforting to Anna
As Anna was to us.
Then Anna found a way to speak
The things she could not say,
That we could live our own lives
And she would be okay.
 For when I turned to leave her,
The words were plainly there,
Not in syllables or voices,
But in the creaking of that chair.
And I think about her sometimes,
When the lilac is in bloom,
Or when a certain something
Seems to linger in the room.
Or when I hear the squeaking
Of a floor-board or a stair,
I get just a little hopeful
...That Anna might be there.
© Jeanne Phillips-Barron
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