Ms Devereux, Jacques and Lucas...
In life, Ms Devereux had been an able seamstress, with a bright eye and nimble fingers.
After death, (although finding herself in ghostly form), saw she no reason to relinquish the hobby which had given her so many years of pleasure, and continued to sew.
Startled at first, the residents of Dubois Manor soon became accustomed to the sight of the ethereal winged lady, floating silently down the corridors of the old house – often followed by Jacques, her raven companion. Indeed, the children grew to welcome the gentle swish of her flowing skirts and the dusty beat of her (somewhat arthritic) wings.
In return for their acceptance and warmth, Ms Devereux embroidered them gifts of patchwork quilts, adorned with lace and satin. The blankets, insubstantial and thin as gossamer – much like the lady herself – nonetheless delighted the children.
As they covered their beds throughout the winter months, the blankets glowed, softly phosphorescent and luminous in the dark, guiding their way to easy sleep, and keeping nightmares at bay.
...And as I walked up the street a few minutes later, passing jack-o-lanterns and paper skeletons in the store windows, I thought to myself, Yeah, he's something else all right: He's a ghost.
And two years later I still think he's a ghost. His own, maybe mine, yours in disguise, a random shade. But a ghost for real and in fact, holy or otherwise. The ghost spun from the silver thread the white lines thin to when you're running on the edge. A ghost loosed with the bands of Orion and squeezed from the sweet influences of Pleiades bound. A ghost risen on the river mist or released in the coil of flames. A rogue ghost. Spirit. A white rose. Rain for the flower in the spiralling root of the dream.
I don't know, and make no claims. But he was at least the ghost of what his journey honoured: the love and music already made; the love and music yet possible for making. A ghost of a chance. A ghost of the honest gospel light and wild joy shaking our bones. The ghost in all of us who would dance at the wedding of the sun and moon.
~ Jim Dodge,
Not Fade Away
... This was drawn while watching The Imaginarium with one eye, and admiring parnassusfan's gorgeous tribute to Terry Gilliam's strange and jewel-coloured world of possibility and imagination... (clicky)...
...and listening to lots and lots and lots of Krista Detor.
She makes everything beautiful.