I believe in ghosts. Sometimes, in the night, I see them. People who had passed away. So real, solid, right there in the room, I can feel them. I always wonder if they came to tell me something, pass on a message from somewhere, or someone else. Maybe they just want to say one last goodbye. Maybe they’re having trouble moving on. It’s possible they weren’t there at all and I was the one who didn’t want to let go.
I don’t see these people as often as I used to. It is a rare occasion when someone stops by. I kind of miss them. It’s odd, too, because I know a lot of dead people now, more than ever before. The number grows all the time.
Sometimes I wonder if I was just dreaming. But they seemed so real, I could almost smell the odor from the last cigarette, the sweat from a hard day, the fragrance of soap, perfume or garlic, onion and tomato sauce. It hung in the air, even in the morning.
As I get older, and the doldrums of life become increasingly obvious, my dreams have changed, become hideous. Not in the terrifying, falling from a great height way, or the trying to run from something, an awful, unknown pursuer, but the ground is so soft, and my legs are so heavy and tired I’m barely moving. My dreams have become uncontrollably mundane and dull. Housefuls of people from different periods of my life, people who are probably still alive, most of whom have never even met, moving through the day without any real purpose, conversations are polite, and soft. Dinner, dishes, and daily minutia reigns. Everything is subdued, dull, pointless, kind of like a crowded version of my real life. Maybe these are the real nightmares.
I have a friend who lost vision several years ago. It was a slow process, a gradual, terrible shrinking reality. He lost his vision, but he never lost his sense of style. We went back to visit him once, before his world went completely black and met him at one of our favorite little watering holes, he rolled up on his bicycle, got off, unfolded his white cane and tapped his way inside.
He hasn’t seen anything for so long he has trouble remembering what it’s like to look at things.
People still come to visit him. He “sees” the people he lost, as if he could still see. He plays golf with his father, throws frisbee or fishes with old friends. There have been times people visited him before he even knew they were gone. In what has to be one of the most insulting twists of all time people in his episodes have accused him of faking blindness. Visitors from the great beyond can still be cruel, paranoid and heartless.
My wife swears when things are darkest, she will wake up in the middle of the night and see a white lacy light on the wall. She takes comfort in knowing her Mother (who was a talented seamstress and made detailed and beautiful doilies) is looking in, “things will be ok.” Occasionally a train whistle will rouse her from a restless, fearful sleep, her Father was a railroad engineer, and she believes it’s his way of providing a little comfort, a strong shoulder to lean on.
I don’t have strong religious beliefs. I like to think there is more to life than this “place of wrath and tears.” But I don’t pretend to know. Maybe we all need a little fiction to help overcome the crushing weight of reality. I prefer to believe reality tries to offer us a little support when it feels us sliding into painful, difficult places.
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This post is republished on Medium.
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