Ghosts of Places Past...My Own Haunting

"Houses are not haunted. We are haunted, and regardless of the architecture with which we surround ourselves, our ghosts stay with us until we ourselves are ghosts." ~DEAN KOONTZ, Velocity

Thursday I had received news from my Grandma that her best friend, the closest thing she has to a sister, had passed away. I immediately began my plans to leave early and go to Yuma. Sharon was a very blunt, honest, and not always tactful person. But you knew where you stood with her. To me she was amazing on how she was able to freely express her opinion without a worry. At the funeral a preacher spoke about the time she actually slapped him. That's right folks she slapped a preacher! I am thankful I was there to be by my Grandma's side, I am thankful I got to say goodbye.

However, being there also meant facing ghosts of my own. Ghosts of the past, the ones that linger in the present, and the ones to be in the future.

I have a habit, of stopping at the flower store and picking up a flower for each grave of those I knew and lost, buried in the Yuma Cemetery. The ones I love, the ones I miss, the ones that sometimes haunt me. I know where each of them are laid to rest, where to find them, what their tombstone looks like. I do not go there to talk to them as if I think they can hear me, I believe they are no longer there, they have moved onto the next plane of existence, be it their next life or the in-between stages awaiting the moment for them to decide to go onto the next life. I believe in reincarnation, and I know eventually the all will have the ability to enjoy a living again.

As the closing of the graveside service came to an end, I placed one daisy upon the casket of my Grandma's best friend. My metaphorical hug goodbye. As I walked away with three left in my hand, I knew which direction I was headed in next. I glanced around to check on my Grandma and Great Grandpa, seeing how they were still visiting I continued along my journey. That is when I heard my name.

I always hesitate when I hear my name while being back in this town. I truly never know who it could be. I slowly turn and see an old friend of my mothers. She was happy to see me, and I was relieved to see how healthy she appeared. This lost person from the past expressed her excitement in seeing me and asked about my children. She continued with me on my walk across the cemetery to my next destination.

The first resting place is perhaps the hardest for me to go to this time. He once was my step-dad, and loved us very dearly. I had just started to send cards and call occasionally within the short months before he passed away. I even made it to this town to see him. I brought Jacki with me that time, my beloved pit whom remembered and loved this man. He knew I was pregnant with Sandra, but in my own selfishness, the days preceding her birth, I did not call him to tell him of her arrival, of the complications that arose. To be fair, I called very few people in this time period. He passed away four days after she was born, he never heard her name.

I was unable to come to the funeral, Sandra was in the hospital, I was fighting an emotional roller-coaster. Between trying to pump so she could eat, what little she was eating, the fact she was four pounds, it was finals week, no to little sleep, and her being there, stuck for ten days. My Grandma went on my behalf as well I am sure for herself.

I know my mothers friend was saying something, I am not sure what. My eyes had blurred, and I was running my finger across the carvings of the letters that made up his name. I apologized for not calling, for not letting him know all was okay. I closed my eyes and felt the breeze kiss upon them, flowing through my hair, and then settling somewhere amongst the trees above, dissipating into the sky. I laid the daisy in front of the marker of the resting place of his body, leaving with it sorrow, and walking away with love, and hope.

As I stood up, off my knees, I felt lighter, and more relaxed. Two more to go.

I walked with my mother's friend from the past back to the congregation of people. I once again glanced around at my group. They still looked content and conversing. I headed out towards my second dead ghost.

I take off my shoes as I feel the pain on my heel from one of them cutting in, I proceed to carry them to the pickup and lay them down on the bumper, and walk away. As I walk through the buried, I feel on the bottom of my feet various things. Soft, lush grass that seem to give the faintest impression of what walking on a cloud must feel. Tender and sweet. Areas of harsh, hardened grass, poking up between my toes and digging into the soles of my feet; as if I was walking on pins and needles. The scattered sections of stickers that occasionally hung onto me. The random sticks and tiny stones feeling as though they were lost, alone, never bunched together and sporadically scattered. A game of battleship, hit or miss.

I glance up to find the one that had brought on such pain, confusion, and fear at the time of loss, that I have stopped trying to understand it. I have just accepted it as is. He had to tie up lose ends as David Foster Wallace would say. This was a man with young children, he was loving and kind. He showed me that no matter where you came from, what past you held, you could become something other than a statistic if you tried. Going from punk kid, in trouble, to eventually a prison guard. Of course life was bringing him full circle I think, back to the in-between stages, the place of adulthood and the choices he made while there, versus the beginning. Perhaps its not really a circle, but I think you get the idea.

Once again I kneel, look squarely upon the gravestone, at the picture of him holding his children. I smile remembering my high-school graduation party, how proud he appeared to be of me. He gave me a writing pen that he had earned as a reward for his job as a guard. A true symbol of the lesson I have held onto. I always felt it was his way of saying...see you do not have to be like those around you, you can choose a different path.

I rub my finger over the oval picture. It is a fairly smooth surface, relaxing and peaceful. I feel the sun beat upon the back of my neck as I have it bent slightly down. I place my third flower down, leaving with it confusion, and walking a way with some relief and strength. You see this is the one ghost who I have conversations with in my dreams. He is the one that continues to encourage me, he is the one waiting, watching. I think he is stuck in the plain of in-between lives, unwilling to leave the watching point over his children, I am thankful for this as I too appear to be one of those he observes from time to time.

Once again, I feel more relaxed as I push myself up off the ground. One more to go.

I was having a hard time finding her. I knew where she was and must have walked by her several times. I noticed that they were waiting on me. This visit would have to wait until after the lunch, the conclusion of the goodbye service, the funeral coming to an end.

I returned later, again with my shoes off I searched. A helpful worker stopped and asked of whom it was I was seeking. I told her and she led me straight there. I had walked by many times, and must have not been fully aware of my surroundings, off in thought as I searched prior for this spot. I do not remember thinking anything, just feeling, trying to be aware. Still, I had passed it by.

I glance down at this person who also had tied up lose ends, leaving behind a daughter. She was not the first one to take her life that I had exposure to, she was just the first one that really hit me hard. I believe the first one, and I know my mom will correct me later if I am wrong,so I may be assisted in placing the sequence of events in the right order for my own benefit, was when I was very small. I don't remember then what my mom said to explain it, I just know that she said it with sorrow. How does a mother explain these things to her children anyways?

On my knees, kneeling for the last time on this current visit to this town, I look at the picture placed upon it, and I remember. I remember being very young, the duck pond, her home, the cop pulling her over while borrowing my moms car to go to 7-11 with myself and my sister in it. I smile. I am also reminded however, of others this time. The ones still living, but lost. The ones I have left, and hope not to run into. The ones that were in my life and hers at the time she ended it, these people are from a time far from the duck pond. Pushing these thoughts away I try to focus back on my "hug". Breathing deeply I can hear the grass under my knees crackle as I try to settle back down. Smiling once again I leave my last daisy. What did I leave behind here? I am not sure, I think I have left behind all the negative emotions, the hurtful, burdening emotions long ago at the foot of this tombstone.

This last time, standing up, walking away, I have a bit of laughter in my heart of fond memories not just of her, but all four that I had contact with that day. The latter three, are part of my ghosts of the past.

As far as the ghosts of the present, those lingering, clinging onto a living facade, yet a slow and self inflicted death, my heart aches. This visit I ran into one.

My Grandma and I were walking into the bar for dinner, and I heard a comment..what you don't talk to me anymore? I know this voice, I actually thought about him off and on throughout the day with a few others. My heart sinks, my stomach is hard, twisting, as if I have been punched, I fell nauseated.

I turn and smile, I am truly still happy to see this man, to hug him, remember who he once was. We talk about my children, I show him pictures. We talk about the loss of a friend, the one whom died after Sandra was born. He comments about those who died, are dying, by their own hands. About the people they once were because they cannot, will not, or do not want to change their lifestyle.

He has tears forming in his eyes, and I know I will not be able to be strong if I stand here any longer, I give him a hug and tell him to take care of himself. He says he is clean, only drinks...I don't believe him. I go onto dinner, my appetite now gone.

There are many like him, lingering out there, my heart aching, these are the people I grew up around. These are the people that played games late into the night, listened to me talk about school, hugged me and some even loving me. How miraculous it is, as I look back, I see so many there, so many caring. How many children had a village to help in the hand of forming a perspective, a past, experience to broaden their mind?

Then there are those that I must consider, and think about constantly, the ones that are in my present and will be in my future. Those who have made changes, those who did not fall, those who escaped the devastating atmosphere of this little town. This cursed little town.

I know I have written a lot tonight. I thank you for your patience, you reading this, helping keep the memories, and not the ghosts of the past alive. In sharing in the minute and limited feelings of a larger burden I hold in on those who are lost in the present, and my thankfulness of those who I still have in my life today.

I know some of these are sore issues for you out there reading this, those who know who and what I speak of. It stabbing at you like a thorn from a rose, the rose sweet as the memories, the thorn painful as the reminder of loss.

"Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened." ~Dr. Seuss