Ghosts

Readers of this blog already know that I believe death to be a brick wall and a void. I've thought about it, alright... before and after my unhappy diagnosis, I've thought about it.

I don't believe in ghosts, spooks, souls, spirits, or energies that pervade post-death. I don't think anyone can speak to the dead.

My brother Mark was killed when he was 26 years old. My older brother soon became my baby brother, which was something I wished for often when I was little and he was big. I wanted very much to "catch up" to him, although I wanted it to happen through magic, not mayhem.

His death was very hard for me. I have stories, but I won't tell 'em.

I used to think I'd see him in a crowd out of the corner of my eye , or that I'd passed him on a bicycle when I was driving my car. It wasn't a conscious thing. I knew he was dead. But then I'd catch myself turning my head to look at the bicyclist with the thought, "Oh, it's Mark.."

I think that kind of ghost is as common as dust bunnies in corners. They're like the ashes in our hearts.

My heart was full of ashes. I carried the ashes from my brother-in-law, and my mother, and brother, along with the ashes of my own regrets. So often I write about Eric and how he changed my life for the better, and showed we a world of possibilities. That's true. Eric was and is my light, but ashes just take time.

I've been haunted, but I've never blamed the dead.