Shallowly Buried Ghosts

How shallowly buried, these ghosts of the past. Summoned awake, six months down the track. One, at the other end of the phone line, proffers caring and the promise of a future visit. I feel moved, more than I might have imagined. The other, following a series of coincidences, comes to see the half-dead 2CV lying in the garage. Brings with him the guitar with which he is inseperably associated. During this unprecedented visit he sits in the bedroom, eyes closed, playing the Flamenco that comes more easily than conversation. The bizarre quality of the event does not pass by me unnoticed. I wonder, did he notice the absence of espresso and bread and olive oil; inferred appreciation for his gift of music? Was he aware I was not actually being inhospitable?