Ghost Ticket

Found this in Nana’s coat,

the lining worn thin.

A train ticket, creased and remote,

where do I begin?

The country’s name, a blur,

ink bleeding into gray.

She never spoke of her stir

before landing here one day.

Just folded laundry, mended socks,

her hands rough as bark.

Built a life behind locked clocks,

left that ghost in the dark.

This cheap paper, smudged and frail,

holds a journey I can’t unveil.