Ghosts

I mostly don’t believe in ghosts, but I am haunted by them just the same.

My ghosts are the sort who stand behind me, just out of sight, and whisper just outside my audible range.

They are pieces of my heart, those I have loved and lost, and they crowd me closely where my memories gather thick and sharp in every shadow. Anchorage presses my heart hardest, but Tacoma, Poulsbo, Bainbridge, and Ephrata also hold echoes.

I see my father, gone twenty years and more, in rocks and stone. When I’m hiking in the mountains, and I touch the bones of the earth and think, “That’s granite”, I know my father is walking with me. He is still and always a teacher and a listener.

My late husband lingers near his office here in Anchorage, where they remember him still. He feels dark and determined, like a storm cloud just before the rain. When I drive by, I greet him and tell him I’m sorry. I’m not sure why I apologize, other than a vague sense of guilt that he left so early and I’m still here.

My son’s ghost is new, insubstantial, and skittish. Sometimes when I see flashes of light – sun reflecting off random grains of sand, white butterflies in shadow, sparks briefly flaring and floating over a bonfire, I feel his hand on my shoulder. I try to greet him, but he’s gone before I can find the words.

Being haunted by those I love is bittersweet. Those moments seem vivid and sharp; I can hold them even as they cut deeply.

It occurs to me, as I keep living and lose more pieces of my heart, my ghosts will eventually outnumber the living, until they fill my world and I finally believe.