Peter's Ghost

Sunday . 9th March . 2025

We named her Peter, after our neighbour. Peter the elder, the original, who used to knock on the incessantly. Peter from whom we hid like naughty children. You would crawl below the window so he wouldn’t see. He was always there.

Until he wasn’t.

We never found out what happened to him but when he was gone, the stray appeared. Meowing. Nesting in the flower pots. Staring through the window, eyes wide, as if we’d locked her out of her own house. “It’s Peter’s ghost. I know it,” you said. And that became her name. ‘Peter’ for short.

The day the storms were forecast, you were outside fussing over the garden. Trying to make your peace with who we’d lose. You left the door open and suddenly Peter’s Ghost was no longer haunting the garden. It wasn’t long before we heard the sound of small destruction from upstairs. And there she was, sitting on the windowsill as if it had always been hers. Peter had broken Star Owl. The one and only. Our best and favorite.

Still crying, you said that Peter’s Ghost could stay. She’d done her worst. Now all that was left was shards of Star Owl, and for us to love her.