The Ghost That Watched

I know they can’t look at me. It’s too hard to look and not see the ghost hovering. With each step, it’s more apparent; with each thought, it becomes clearer.

How does one face down a venerated villain? Especially when it seems you’re the only one willing to remove the rose-colored glasses? The very things you fear and despise and run away from in others are just lying in wait inside you, waiting for the right moment to reveal their terrible glory.

We all want to celebrate the good moments but we dwell and wallow so much easier in trauma and drama.

So I’m allowed in polite society but held at arms length. They can’t let me forget I belonged to someone somewhere, just not them, not here. I nod and try to follow along but I just don’t understand what they’re saying. The more people that show up, the lonelier I feel.

I decide to take a walk at night. The ghost is almost a solid apparition now. With little imagination I feel the old scars opening to new wounds. Haven’t we traveled this road often enough we don’t even need the streetlight anymore? The air is heavy, warm, and smells of summer rain.

I know this is how it will be when it’s my time to be a ghost. I know how the air will feel, how the words will taste, and how it will sound when all is quiet but for our steps. I know they’ll continue to look right through me when I’m a ghost.

I just want them to turn and look now, for I am very much alive and curious and ready and present. If they can ignore the ghost that watches, we can move forward. I am not an apparition; I am flesh and light and song. There will be time to quiet and soothe old hurts. There will be room to stretch and grow and plant things. But not until they see only me can we put aside old dreams and make new ones.

July 17, 2013 0

Hands, Open

He lay so still, I had to make sure he was breathing. He wasn’t. He was cold and so very, very still. There weren’t any marks except a light dusting of dirt on his side. Had he fallen? All alone? It was a beautiful day to fall, I suppose.

I had been irritated with him the night before but hadn’t told him. I’m glad. He had picked me apart with some disdain as usual. But we had lingered. Longer than usual. Keeping an odd conversation going while looking deeply at each other for some answers to questions that had been asked years ago.

He had been in a rare light mood, smiling a little easier. I had been confused and a little jealous that I had never brought on a smile like that. It was always others that seemed to bring him joy but I brought him either torment or peace. He had written about it; I may still have some of the writings. I hope so. He had pulled out some books as usual. Why can’t I remember what they were? Why can’t I remember any of the jokes that made him laugh? Now, when I look and see his eyes almost closed, never to read again, I shiver.

People had gathered. Lots of noise and quiet mixed together. Touch him, they said. There’s a spot that’s still warm. I didn’t want to but I did and when I did it was awkward like always but strangely comforting and a little too close to the clammy feeling I had had being in the same room with him when he was menacing. He wasn’t scary now.

Hands. That’s all I could focus on now. His hands were open. More open than I had seen in awhile. They weren’t grasping or clenching or swinging or gesturing. They were open to accept whatever fate awaited. I leaned in and took his hand. I held it, time stretching for long minutes. Pushed aside any flashes of scenes involving those hands hurting and tried to call forth some remembrance of those hands holding, healing, helping, caring. I just held the hand that was getting cooler with each minute.

There did not seem to be a correct or safe time to let go. And nobody paid me any mind as I held the hand. It did not hold me back. But I held on tighter and found the feeling a nice one to have. Our hands had not met in a very long time, I realized. But there they were now, mirrors of each other. I try to pick up where he left off sometimes, but I was never as smart or as driven so my efforts often fall short. But my hands are not idle as he so often claimed. They may not always be full, but they are open to whatever fate awaits me.

July 9, 2013 0

Same Old Song

He was lonely, playing his music was not enough
Her toes danced under the covers
But she wouldn’t wait
So as the storm raged on outside
She gasped and closed her eyes
While he was on his way
Any danger held at arms length

Later they would talk and not listen
Confessions would be made
After all the awkward pauses
A slow dance in a dark room
The distant sound of a train breaks the quiet
The same old song plays in the background
As they strain to listen

The conversation goes in circles
With each day bringing surprises to no one
But they hold on for no other reason
Than finding themselves lost alone
And with searching in common
They weathered the storm
The music tiding them over.

July 7, 2013 0

Not Alone

Please. Don’t go. Not yet. I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight. The air feels strange and the clouds are hiding the moon. I can’t get my bearings. Not by stars. I’m so warm, burning on the inside but my skin is cold.

You knew before you you saw me I was in trouble. Was it my tone or my choice of ideas to express? Did my eyes give me away or was it the too-big smile? Most are happy to be fooled into inaction. Most just keep walking by. But will you stop? Stay awhile?

There’s so much more I can do besides care about grammar or punctuation. I have so many songs to sing if only someone can help me with the words. My head hurts again. It’s so hard to think with the pounding. So I let go and let you take over while I try to stay upright.

I can almost feel the caress of your words. Your fingers gently gliding as the pen makes real the fantasy. Soothing and thoughtful, the dusky twilight comes alive with fireflies and poetry. My own thoughts jumbled, nothing to keep me company but for some far off dreamer.

July 7, 2013 0

Midway Through

Just a little longer, he thought. I can wait. I can sit on this bench and watch the people walk by. He sat just left of center, not inviting company. The people moving through the midway looked like they were being herded and led to slaughter. Very few smiled. Most didn’t look at anyone, just blankly stared ahead. Not one of the cattle noticed him on the bench. How could they not see?

He was slowly losing all sense of time and feeling in his extremities; soon he’d possibly melt right on the ground. Were there no warning signs or were people just showing selective sight?

In a few hours, it would be done. The freak show would pack up and move on. The herds of patrons would look for something else to whet appetites of destruction. He would not be on that bench. He was going to go out with a bang. A whirl. At least he’d make them pause in their tracks.

He got up and walked the midway. Carnies cajoling kids to throw darts and rings. Food vendors flipping treats to quick eaters. Loud music. Bright lights. Smell of grease, smoke, sugar, and leather as he neared the tent with belts and wallets. Purchasing a belt, he walked with purpose toward the Ferris wheel.

He stood and watched cycle after cycle until the sky was dusky enough, all the lights were on. This was it. The time for his glorious end. To tumble from the top of a lit Ferris Wheel was his ideal end. He went to the ticket booth, noticed they had raised their prices for the weekend. He pulled his remaining money from his pocket. Not enough. He had spent too much on what he thought was his last meal of pizza, taffy, and a root beer.

Almost numb but with some disbelief, he turned away and headed home.