This house has survived though parts of it sag and heave like a woman in old age. Lolo Pedro played Chopin here. The notes drifted over the heads of paddy workers into the mountains where they were lost in the voice of the howling wind. Lolo Pedro is long gone. Even when his grave was opened to bury my grandmother beside him, his bones were long gone.
Silence is a music played here.
Silence is spoken by the dead. I am listening. I am listening. Whispers are intangible since the dead have long breathed their last. The ghosts have gone from here because the living no longer live here.