There are ghosts that haunt me— that will not let me see them, only feel their essence.
The ones that prod my skin with maternal hands, announce themselves to my senses with the scent of mangoes, pan de aqua, the chanting of forgotten lullabies, the tingling of milk dropped onto my tongue— all the light heaviness of memory.
They curl beside me in sleep, cribbing me in their silence, hoping I will ask them to stay. But I cannot.
Then, there are those with the laugh of a dozen friends, I heard echo through old schools, where the floors still squeak under the pressure of sneakers, the almost touch of fingers that never quite held. Some reek of the musk from under— dogwood and weeds, others from the unknown spaces where erasers and chalk dust settled after each graduation— their dares— now— fading— now— never spoken.
Then there are those phantoms that write themselves into my margins.— The loyal dogs now paw print coasters. The vibrant smile of the old woman I passed— on the pedestrian bridge. The father I loved and who admired me too late— only— wind through the window cracks. I feel them lean into me their breath— on my shoulders. And, for a moment they are— wholly seen.
Some ghosts are not ghosts but phantom things existing in silent sight. My mother’s greeting cards filed away in the bottom drawer of my garage file cabinet, close, but not next to the ones on presents my father gave me. The Miami Dolphin polo, hanging, unworn in the closet until the Phins return to their next Super Bowl— if I should live that long. The teddy bear I gave my Ex, to cheer her up, when she went into hospice— now sitting—gathering radiant beams from the light of the big screen television. It clings—admiringly— to whatever warmth remains.
And some ghosts are not nouns.. They are the ache that comes from listening to “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” or the joyous laughs I get when I sing that silly “Coconut” song by Harry Nilsson on Cruise karaoke night, after my wife made me croon “Leroy Brown.” They are the light that enters through the blinds at 7 am— and wake me up with the promise and memories of mornings. They are the sun, cresting again, saying begin, begin, as if no ending could ever outlast the grace of what remains.
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