I wonder how my life would be
different if just once during
my childhood I had imagined
there was a ghost under my bed
or a skeleton buried in the garden.
I read books with those
scenes and I felt deprived.
My friends said that I lacked
imagination, and I was able
to imagine them falling
victim to ghosts that inhabited
their homes, were carried off
by skeletons rising from
their burial place in their yards.
So perhaps I had
a normal childhood after all,
if imagining vicariously
is as good as a living fantasy.