Ghosts

The ghosts of the past suddenly materialize, like steam gathering into water droplets falling on the page, making little puckers of dampness and destroying the smooth surface The ephemeral becoming real, showing up with an unexpected, and also a little bit unwelcome, dimensionality.

The ghosts of the past are no longer fading into the background, not content as memories, thrust themselves into the present, demanding attention and engagement, making me look at them and talk to them and pay attention in a way I never did even before they became ghosts in the first place.

The ghosts of the past are no longer whispering in the dark corners, but now they are talking, loudly and confidently, wanting to be heard. And the ghosts are no longer slinking around in the shadows, but instead are striding boldly into the center of the room, waiting to be acknowledged.

These ghosts are taking their place in my life, making room for themselves as part of me, not just a vague remembrance of 2-dimensional pictures from an old photo album. These ghosts demand my respect for who they were, and who I have become because of them. They are not content to be a teary memory, and beloved touchstone, a story I tell myself or others.

They have come back to life to keep me company, to show me who they were and who I am, and to carry me to the next step on the journey. These ghosts are making sure I know I'm not alone.