That’s right; I talk to ghosts. Don’t you? No! I don’t believe you. Everybody talks to ghosts: young people, old people, even busy middle-aged people. But I suppose old people talk to ghosts most of all – they know more of them. At least that’s how it seems to me, as I grow older.
Bob and Grisibella still walk with me when I wheel the garden cart full of trash bags out to the road for the weekly pick-up. Bob pulls ahead on his leash, as though to help me move the load, and Grisabella walks alongside, feigning cat-ish indifference to the whole business – just as they did when they were alive. I talk nonsense to them because they have no use for words. Only tone matters to them – as always.
I speak in words to human ghosts, but not out-loud. Conversation with ghosts doesn’t need sound, and I don’t need to be thought crazier than I am. And beside that, they do most of the talking. I listen.
Grandma Ollie is forever reminding me in her gentle way, to be kind – and forgiving. Grandpa Joe usually nods in agreement. He knows how right she is. Grandad Bill always has a wink and a joke to tell. He reminds me that life is for living as well as for learning. Aunt Lesta, Aunt Lettie, and Aunt Bessie often show up, too. They talk to each other more than to me.
I understand, though. They weren’t as close as they might have been when they were alive, and they have a lot to catch up on. Aunt Lesta doesn’t say so, but I’m pretty sure she was the peacemaker in their reunion.
Uncle Archie says he doesn’t regret the emphysema – the smoking was worth it – a man’s entitled to some pleasure in life. Well, maybe he would have cut back a little, but he wouldn’t have quit cold. How can I disagree? Uncle Archie was the hardest working man I ever knew.
A man’s entitled to some pleasure in life.
Dad says Uncle Archie has a point. But Dad’s still glad he gave up smoking when he did – not that it saved his life. The asbestos fibers that accumulated in his lungs during his years as a glassblower ended up killing him anyway. He just felt better after he quit smoking. He’s always after me to do likewise. Dad’s probably right about that, but... Maybe later. I do smoke much less than I used to. (Mom frowns at this less-than-committed remark).
She gives me more advice now than when she was alive. Worse yet, she’s still right – most of the time. OK, OK, just about all of the time. Mom will allow that I’ve made some improvement, but only some, lest I turn slacker on her to rest on my meager laurels. Anyway, these days, Chelsea & Moriah Lake, (her new grand-daughters) get most of her attention – as they should.
I speak daily to these ghosts and others, too. They aren’t real, but they are more than just imagined. They seem to be a presence beyond myself – different from me, as well as from each other. They point out things I’m sure I would not have noticed and sometimes they disagree. Their souls have gone to God, but a part of each has somehow stayed behind to live inside of me.
Because of them, I am no longer one – but many.