There are ghosts of me in this town

She is seven, walking to school,

her brand new backpack too big

for her form; she passes by her

classmate’s house and the dimly-lit stationary

store that sells her favourite eraser.

On her way home, she stuffs her cheeks

with a hot bun that her mum buys

from a hole-in-the-wall. Red-bean paste

explodes in her mouth and her body

tingles in its sweetness. The golden leaves

shaped like fans dance to the ground,

and the wind whispers the arrival

of colder days.

***

She is thirty-three, dragging her feet

– effortlessly sucked into a convenience

store. The basket fills without her command:

onigiri, sweet breads, cheap cans of sake.

Her well-trained hand taps and blips

at the vibrant screen; her head stays down as

she mumbles a thanks to the

cashier from Southeast Asia.

She stops to browse some vintage stores,

whose owners’ faces she’s come

to know. She picks out a shirt

with an image of a band she had

let define her youth. Her translucent skin exposed

to the muted wind, she walks the

streets of my town – haunted by a feeling

she cannot name.