In Conclusion
In Conclusion
May 08, 2025
I awoke somewhat light headed. Sunlight shone through the open window. I took an inventory of myself to discover my clothes, those unwashed, muddy jeans and shirt from my attack were replaced with a cotton nightshirt. My skin and hair were clean. The bruises from ago had somehow healed.
I sat up in bed and looked at the mirror. The bullet hole in my head had also healed.
I died last night. I was attacked, possibly raped, and shot in the head, maybe not in that order. But, somehow, I am clean, fully functional, and alive.
This cannot be true. Once you die, you die.
I lay paralyzed in bed, unable to comprehend the last events of my life.
Then, I smelled coffee.
And bacon.
Someone is cooking in my house. Or is it their house? Am I a guest or a patient?
Once again, I arise. I have to go discover answers. After last night, I have nothing to lose.
The old lady finished pouring two cups at a table set for one. She waved her hand for me to take the seat with the bacon, croissant, and sliced strawberries. She didn’t wait for me to ask questions before she began sipping from her cup.
When in Rome,
I took a sip of the coffee, good coffee. I passed on the butter and took a small bite from the croissant. I even partook of a strawberry slice before she began to speak.
“What do you remember?”
Even though I did not know her name, I told her what she wanted to know.
“What do you know of this place?”
“Nothing.” It was all I could offer before another sip.
“You are Katheryn Hollister. You were a nursing student until your conclusion.”
“What do you mean, were a nursing student?”
“Please permit me to finish. You were a nursing student until your conclusion at the age of 28. I was also 28 when I concluded, much in the same way as you.”
I tried to interrupt, but to no avail. It is as if this woman had to tell me what she was saying. I acquiesced by finishing my coffee, listening intently.
“This place has no formal name. Many of the people here refer to it by a variety of nomenclatures. I like to call it home. I have been here so long, it might as well be such.”
“How many people live here?”
With a final sip of her coffee, the old lady rose and began clearing the dishes. I waited for her to answer my question.
“No one actually lives here. We prefer the term, “reside”. With each passing moment, you will grow older even though you will not feel any detrimental effect in the process. Now that you have arrived, ostensibly to take my place, I am free to depart. In the meantime, you will encounter as many residents that wish to encounter you.”
With that, she began to fade, almost an evanescence. I asked her name. I missed her first, but heard her last, “Genovese”, loud and clear.
Returning to the bedroom, I discovered one set of clothes that fit me well. Fully functional, comfortable, and modest were (maybe still are) the adjectives I gravitate toward. I alighted from this house’s porch, on my way to find answers to my many, many questions.
While there are no days or nights “here”, I must have been “here” for an unusually long time. I noticed upon my return, I had quite a few gray hairs and my first wrinkles near my eyes. I did not feel tired or hungry, but I went through the motions to sleep and eat anyway.
By the time I did encounter another resident, they were as bewildered as myself. He had no answers to give other than he enjoyed going through puberty and growing to manhood during his residence. He did not enjoy his conclusion.
When asked, he replied his name was, “Alan Kurdi.” When pushed, he said his conclusion came from drowning. Empathically, I said, “gunshot wound.” Neither of us wanted to continue the conversation. As he departed, I noticed wrinkles on my hands indicative of what I would have looked like had I lived long enough to find out. Moments later, my skin looked almost transparent. If what was happening was as if it happened before, my time was running out. All I could do was kneel beside a small pond to watch my reflection begin to slowly fade. My residency was at an end. I might have been angry at my lot in life, yet all I could do was smile. What I had was more than others. Here, I was given (By whom? Who knows?) a small respite in which to think, gather my thoughts, and face my destiny as a complete person.
I am in conclusion.
The Physics of Math: Where the Ass Meets the Road
I slipped on some ice on the cement today. Ice, of course, is frozen water, or H2O below 32ºF (0ºC). At this temperature, the water molecules lose energy and slow down; they self-assemble into a hexagonally-structured crystal lattice, forming a solid state of slick substrate above which floats a thin layer of liquid water from the friction pressure of my foot lowering the melting point.
Liquid layer, it turned out, had hydrogen bonds less tightly bound, moving freely enough to become an excellent lubricant, reducing the friction between my foot and the ice, making it slippery.
It’s all chemistry, after all, which is harder to understand than the pain of a suddenly dislodged coccyx at its sacral attachment. (You don’t need to look to the heavens to see stars; they are all around us, kept in a crystal lattice themselves—one of potential energy in search of the right kinesis.)
Of foot.
And while my right foot can garner Oscar chatter, it landed my ass very kinetically onto the cement below.
Ah, chemistry.
Beware! If you go too deep into chemistry, you're suddenly doing physics.
F = M x A
The mass was my ass. What a difference one tiny, little letter makes, especially when you accelerate it. The terminal velocity of a human in a stable, ass-to-cement position is around 120 mph (193 km/h). This speed is reached when the force of drag from air resistance equals the force of gravity acting on the person, resulting in constant speed.
But this is incorrect.
The terminal velocity when my ass hit the ground was 0. Sudden and terminally stopped. My irresistible ass met the immovable ground.
That’s when I realized, if you do phsyics deep enough, it’s all math, or in my case, calculus where I met my fate at t=0. Yet, standards of rigor have evolved over—dare I invoke it?—time. Calculus, originally founded on ill-defined infinitesimals, transitioned to the modern, more rigorous formalism reliant on limits.
And I met mine. I’ve got the X-ray to prove it, so buzz off, Gödel! And come on in, Euler.
Euler’s Identity, for those who missed that class, is
e^ix = cos x + isin x
Bear with me. Hear me out.
Euler’s identity states that when Euler's number (e) is raised to the power of imaginary pi (iπ), the result, when added to 1, equals 0. Pretty scary when you think about it. I didn’t. I was in a hurry. Down I went. I was the one who went down. Euler is the one who pulled the rug out.
I was the “1”; but my ass stopped moving at “0”.
And seeing the stars, I realized that if you do math deep enough, the physics becomes metaphysics, the branch of philosophy that explores what is hubristic “first principles” of things, such as the abstract concepts of being, knowing, substance, cause, identity, time, and space.
And nothing explores being, substance, cause, and space like falling on your ass. (The knowledge of the knowing and time it takes to know—truly know—comes with the stars.)
Time, from ambulation to inertness, from motion to frozen in time like water frozen into ice, can be reverse-extrapolated to t = 0; however, the opposite of extrapolation is miscalculation. Look it up.
There are quantum effects that emerge at Planck lengths and Planck time, miscalculated or otherwise, both of which become evident when one hits the ground sitting. (Alternatively, hits the sitting grounded.)
Thus, deep math is quantum physics. In math, though, wrong assumptions cannot occur beyond what is provable or unprovable; but in quantum physics we are deluded into thinking we have a choice. Prior to slipping on my ass, I walked in a probability field.
When I fell on my ass, I was in a definite field: The field of pain.
And that, my friends, was definite! With the collapse of my ass, so collapsed my probability field, and with it, my sacrococcygeal ligament. And as we all know…
…the hip bone’s connected to the thigh gone…
…and on and on. You realize the interconnectedness when you remember that all pain is perceived in the brain. Acute pain engenders anger; chronic pain engenders depression.
But there is hope.
The stars—like hip bones to thigh bones—are the result of somatosensory neurons connected to the occipital lobe; and when the descending pain modulation pathway fails and, counterintuitively, amplifies the pain, deep quantum engenders religion.
And this is when I found religion. Does that sound irrational? or just complex?
Thus, reads the postulate, “More people, in these troubled times, should fall on their asses.” (You can quote me on that!)
Shattered
My feet rustle through the
roots protruding from
it's living environment.
I stand still in murky waters.
sinking in the cavity of earth.
The cries are wrenching my
teeth. No longer does the mind
thrive on thirst, but hunger knaws.
Brittle nails scratch the surface
deep in the bones of an ivory life.
Whispers through the coldest breast,
nothing is heard, nothing is seen.
A body of wreckage lie six feet deep
until the moon rises and the sun moves
North of a broken heart.
Infinitesimally Infinite
I'd never seen anyone outside the house, but it always looked like I'd just missed them. A pile of recently delivered bark chips sat in the driveway next to the car that was forever standing watch in front of the garage. A ladder splayed open among some tall shrubs, or maybe short trees. I wasn't sure which. The front porch, deliciously cluttered with shiny glass bowls, and animal figurines reminded me of Grandma's house; warm, inviting, and safe. I felt like I could trust them, whoever the residents were. Around the corner, an overturned wheelbarrow was becoming one with the strip of nature left between the sidewalk and the street. Garden pathways wound around the luscious corridors of untended decorative plants. Everything from butterfly bushes to bleeding hearts melding together as the years continued to slip by.
As I marveled at the cacophony of it all, I realized my observations must still fall short. We have this ability to condense each leaf into a branch, and each branch into a tree, until it feels like the universe only holds a few billion big things instead of an amount of small things so incomprehensible that your mind would explode trying to contain it all. What untold wonders lie in the dirt beneath the green? How many bugs worked the soil, and maintained the plants while the owners of the house remained a mystery? What birds had landed here, and how many squirrels quarreled with them over food? The blades of grass stood tall yet unquantifiable, like the many hairs on my head, my arms, my legs; begging me to wonder how all of this infinity could come to exist in what couldn’t be more than a quarter acre.
Life is Good
I have reached the point where I can sit down. After spending the last four hours working in the back yard and garden, there’s nothing left to complete. The brick walkway is once again weed-free. After amending the soil, the potatoes and onions are planted. Netting is put up. Seeds for beets, broccoli, carrots, cauliflower, peas, peppers, radishes and spinach are nestled in their respective beds or pots. The windchime, rain gauge, garden flags and cast-iron pig (“This little piggie went to the garden.”) have been returned to their rightful spots. The bird feeders and water bowl/birdbath are full. Everything has been crossed off Spring’s To Do List. Quite a productive afternoon. But this wasn’t always the case.
Taking inventory of the work completed, I reflect on the original condition of the fenced-in yard when I bought my foreclosed home nine years ago. The exterior was in rough shape but still better off than the interior of the 106-year-old house. The fence needed repairs. There was no electricity to the deteriorating shed. Railroad ties appeared to be solid but were rotted out underneath. Bamboo had gained a firm foothold among the tree stumps and knee-high weeds. Large rocks were strewn about. At varying intervals, bricks peaked from beneath the overgrown sod. And the enclosed patio was not structurally sound.
Each of the first eight years, when the weather in Virginia warmed, I’d postpone my inside repairs and tackle the most pressing landscaping issues. I’d focus on a major job while utilizing any area not needing attention for planting vegetables. Underbrush, weeds, stumps, railroad ties and seemingly endless bamboo roots were cleared. Now I have more sun exposure. The entirety of a brick walkway was exposed and realigned while the rocks were organized. Now the garden feels more inviting. New roof, siding and electrical wiring for the shed. Now I have a functional workshop. The patio was demolished and replaced with proper steps flanked by permanent storage compartments. Now I have convenient access to the yard. Blueberry and raspberry bushes were planted. Two raised beds for strawberries were set up. Compost bins were started. Rain barrels were added. Now the garden is self-sustaining. These tasks dominated my summers. I looked forward to the day when all the work needed would be finished.
And that day is now. I can prep my garden in just a few hours, leaving the rest of the season to focus on planting and harvesting. The birds, squirrels and lone chipmunk get fresh water and food on a regular basis. Within six to eight weeks, I’ll have a steady supply of vegetables and berries well into September. So, sitting on the backsteps, surveying my private slice of Heaven, I know all the hard work completed the previous years has made everything right in the world now. This is a perfect day.
Train Wreck
It was a screech, like a full-blown train whistle, 30 seconds long. Twice. It was as if the local train (two miles away) had run off the tracks, zoomed across the river, and landed in Cowboy’s office. Holy Guacamole. What was it? The noise scared the pee-wadden out of me, but it stopped as suddenly as it had started and I went back to my coffee.
All of a sudden, Cowboy called out, “I’ve been hacked.” He threw a few expletives in, but I’ll omit them.
“What’s going on?” He was as serious as I had ever seen him. His face pulsated red and white. His voice shook and he stood up and sat down four times. What was going on?
I looked at his computer, expecting to see fire and smoke and maybe a hatchet splitting the computer in half, but it was worse. Red flashing lights, and a phone number reading “MICROSOFT EMERGENCY. CALL THIS NUMBER NOW,” with an 800-phone number displayed on the screen.
He said, “Should I call the number? It’s Microsoft, for crying out loud. This must be serious.”
“I don’t know? It looks authentic, and reads Microsoft. We can go to the Geek Squad, but that’ll take a whole day, maybe two or three. Let’s call the number, see what we get.”
So, we had a conversation with a somebody who said he was a Microsoft employee, not a traditional English speaker, but someone who asked all kinds of questions and gave out a plethora of information that made no sense.
Here is what happened next: we had checked everything and he finally said, “You’ve got viruses, really bad viruses and they’ve infected your computer and online banking system, so the most important thing is protect your online banking system from this bad virus until you can replace your computer. I can do that for you. Could you give me your bank numbers, please?” Cowboy slammed the phone down and shouted at the phone, “Thief. You’re a thief. A lowly robber, pickpocket, thief. Best Buy--Geek Squad at here we come. Let’s go.”
The Geek Squad at Best Buy was busy, as usual. I think you need gray hair and a lot of wrinkles to get an appointment, and we waited a long time. The Geeky guy finally took our computer and said, “Yup, that’s pretty much what we do. When you see this Microsoft thing that sounds like a train wreck, hit CTRL, ALT, DELETE. Immediately! Otherwise, it will be a financial train wreck. All those ‘Microsoft emergencies’ ask you to hand over your bank account numbers. Don’t do it! They are Internet shysters. That’s pretty much what this line is for.” He pointed at the ever-growing line of gray-haired people. “Hit Alt, Control, Delete instead.”
And now: The computer works properly. Banking apps are intact. My word of advice: watch out for a Microsoft computer thief as it can be a fatal train wreck!
Haunted
"Can you believe he’d say that?" she asks. "I was stunned! No one else laughed, but I thought it was hysterical. I almost died in the middle of the staff meeting! It’s not just me, right? You see it, too?"
I smile, my head near hers. She's sitting on a red-checked blanket wearing a blue-checked dress.
She always brought a blanket when she visited me. We'd sit here for hours. Sometimes looking at photos. Sometimes in silence. Today she brought a little tumbler of wine, which she clung to with one hand while the other sliced through the air that way it did when she was a little drunk and a little silly.
"That’s crazy," I say, not sure what to add.
"I knew you’d get it," she says, her laughter subsiding. "You always understand my sense of humor."
"What’s not to get?" I ask, rhetorically. "You’re smart. Funny. You always make me laugh. Plus you’re never mean-spirited. You’re easily the nicest person I’ve ever known."
She smiles that way she does when a memory of the past creeps it's way to the present.
"I think about how we met all the time," she says, after a pause. "God, that was so random. I didn’t even like coffee back then. Don’t know why I stopped in. Talk about luck. Did I ever tell you, I told Lucy about you when I got to class, and she said you probably just hung out there every day, waiting to meet girls? She was certain you were a creep! She tried to convince me that you used the same routine on everyone you met, but I defended you."
"I never liked Lucy," I say.
"I know you never liked Lucy!" she adds, at the same time, making me chuckle.
I stand, looking down at her, lost in her own world.
"I miss you," I say, my emotions bumbling up. "I hate being apart. I never wanted it to be this way. I hope you know."
She looks sad. She always looks sad lately.
"This really sucks," she says, finally, her eyes cast downward toward. "I don’t blame you for anything, but I HATE this. Hate that I feel this way. I wake up every morning hoping it’s just a bad dream and that you’ve come home. I’ve been trying to stay strong with everything, all the changes. I know you want that. But it’s too much most of the time. I’m not sure I can keep going."
If I could cry, I would.
"Don’t say that …" I say.
"I know I have to, but it’s hard," she adds. "You’re everywhere I look these days, and nowhere, at the same time."
We stay there, in the quiet. I'm not sure what to say. I was never good at saying the thing that needed to be said when it was needed to be said.
There's a long silence. It feels like ages. I can hear kids laughing a few blocks away and the sound of what I think is a garbage truck backing up. The wind gusts, her brown hair flitting in front of her eyes. I notice she is crying, silently.
Finally, she reaches into her purse, pulling out flowers, placing them on the ground in front of my grave marker.
"I love you," she says, so soft I can barely hear it. "Know that. Please. And I always will. No matter what. You’re forever in my heart, in my thoughts. I just hope, wherever you are, you know I’m still here; I won’t let you go."
***
I was 34 when I died. It's been two months now. I try not to let it get me down. Some people do not live as long. Some people live much longer but never really live at all. I was lucky.
One second I was there, the next I wasn’t. A flash. A moment. That was all it took.
It did not hurt. Dying was painless. Like stepping into a warm bath. One foot in, and half the work is done. The rest is just letting go.
I make it sound easy: letting go. But that is the hard part. Moving on. Checking out. Life is too damn great. The world is beautiful. Memories are forever. A life spent kicking and screaming. A life of taxes and bad Thai food and cold and angst and worry. A life spent dreading the next morning – then suddenly there are no more mornings. And all you want is one more.
You finally get the meaning of life once it is taken from you. That’s the gut punch.
I still feel. It’s a reflex. Love. Loneliness. Despair. It’s like an echo of a previous emotion, but it is still there.
Echoes. I guess that's what keeps me here. Why I can't move on.
***
I saw her today. She was like a ghost. I get the irony of that. But, still, she was. A memory. Something distant and tangible but definitely not real.
It had been weeks since I last saw her, ever since I left the cemetery. I'm not sure why I left. I just did.
Then I wandered around, searching for something I couldn't name. I visited a lot of the places we once frequented. I'm not sure why. I'd just stand there and stare at the people and wish they’d stare back.
I try to remember what it was like to be alive. And I can. Barely.
That's when I see her. She's crossing the street at the coffee shop where we first met. She's either going to work or coming from it, wearing that blue suit she'd wear when she had a big meeting.
I almost say hello. Stop. Let’s talk. It was an impulse. Because it wouldn’t matter. She wouldn't hear me. But I almost do it anyway.
She looks sad in a way she hadn't just a few weeks before. The beauty is still there, but it hides a lot of pain. I assume that is because of me. I know that look. I caused her a lot of pain when I was alive, and it did not stop when I left.
As she nears me, she hesitates -- for a moment, a split second. I feel it. It's a reaction. A small one. But something. I KNOW it was something. It still hurts. For us both.
***
I came back to our house. Where we lived. I held out as long as I could. Six months. Maybe seven. I didn’t want to, but I was drawn there.
I spent days on the lawn, looking in, trying to not go through the door. She left and came back, every day. But I just stood there. I just stared at the dancing lights inside, trapped somewhere between the past and the present.
THEN
"I think this is yours," she said, approaching my table. "My name’s not 'Pete.'"
"Neither is mine," I said with a laugh, taking the coffee. "But, yeah, this my drink. Thanks. They’re, uh, not very good here."
She lingered by my table that way people do when they are not in a hurry to leave. "I agree," she said, flashing the first of a million smiles. "It’s like they’re trying to be bad!"
"I know!" I said, a bit too enthusiastically. "And they’re SOOOO good at it."
"Right?" she said, laughing. "If they sold 'Bad Customer Service' here instead of coffee, they’d have lines around the corner."
We both laugh until we don't. She extends her hand. "Hi, I'm ..."
NOW
And then, like that, I'm inside the house.
That is where I once slept. That is where we made dinner. That is where I proposed to her. That is where I fell and broke my neck and died. And that is where she found me, a lifeless body, and cradled me and screamed and cried until she had no more tears.
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Not true. All I saw was the fucking stairs. Then the ceiling. Then I was dead and standing here, looking down at myself.
But now that I'm officially dead, ironically, the past is all around me, floating by. Every memory. Every moment.
THEN
"You promise you aren’t peeking!?" she said.
"I swear!" I said, feeling her waving her hand in front of my face to test me.
"OK," she said. "Because if you are, I’ll take it back."
I'd never met a woman who loved surprises more. The bigger, the more elaborate, the better. Luckily I had never spoiled a surprise by learning about it in advance, but I'd sworn to myself that if I ever did, I'd keep my goddamned my shut. I couldn't steal this from her.
She led me by the hand, out the front door, the cool of the winter air shivering my coat-less body.
"All right. Open!"
In front of me was a shiny, vintage convertible. The kind you see in movies starring James Dean.
"What is this?" I said, the practical one. "How could you afford ..."
"Don’t get too excited; I didn't buy it. I just borrowed it from a guy I work with for a few days. But I thought we could go up the coast for the weekend. You know, cruise with the top down."
"Well, it's winter ..." I said.
"Don't ruin it!" she said, laughing. "We can turn the heat on."
I was at a loss of words but not emotions. An unfamiliar place for me to be. Finally I just wrapped my hand around her waist and pulled her tight.
"I … don’t know what to say," I managed. "This is the best birthday I ever had. Seriously. You’re ... awesome. I don’t deserve ..."
NOW
No, your life doesn’t flash before your eyes when you die. That would be easy. A flash is quick.
Instead, your life tortures you. It chokes you. It taunts you, as real as when it first happened. Your life lingers like a shadow you can’t shake.
I sit next to her. I lie beside her while she sleeps, too. Cooks. Cleans. Whenever she’s home, I’m by her side. Waiting. Hoping she feels me here.
She doesn't, of course. Feel me. But she talks to herself when she sleeps, and sometimes, I swear she is talking to me.
She still has our photos up. Even the newest ones look older. Fading. I am surrounded by memories of me. Our life is on constant display.
THEN
"You sure about this?" I asked, wanting to make sure this was her dream, too.
"Yes. 100 percent."
"Because it doesn’t have to be this one. I don’t want you to think …"
"Will you stop?," she said, finally looking at me. "THIS is the house. We both agree. OK? Not the next one or the one before. This. One. Let’s just do it."
We had been standing in the driveway for about an hour weighing the pros and cons. Finally, I admitted I really, really wanted it. She said she did, too. But, like always, when I got what I wanted, I was suddenly not sure.
"But it costs so much," I said, trying to talk us out of the thing I wanted, or trying to test her in some weird way. "We will be paying until we’re …"
"Until we are two old folks STILL living together in this beautiful house?" she said, grabbing my hands. "So? Is that a bad fate? To grow old together in a place we love, until one day, it's ours?"
"We could start a family here," I said, allowing her enthusiasm to pave over my fear.
"We WILL start a family here," she corrected me. "We won’t regret this moment. But if we say no, we will. I know it."
NOW
They say the past makes sense with time and distance. But that’s all I have now, and I … just … feel lost. Angry. Frustrated.
I can’t move on, and I can’t be present. So I wallow in the pain of yesterday, caught in this slowly simmering sea of rage from which I can’t seem to escape.
She went on her first date tonight. It has been a year, from what I can gather. Joyce said she needed to get back “out there.”
The guy took her to a restaurant in Little Italy; I found out later when she called Joyce with the news. I wanted to go with her, but I can't seem to leave the house anymore.
She was polite but told Joyce she did not like him. There was no spark.
I'm relieved. I want her to move on. But I also don’t. Not really.
***
She has seen Paul eight times. He is a new guy. It has been three years since I died. I have watched men come and go, but he is the only one who has stuck.
Paul is a nice guy, from what everyone says.
He works in a furniture store. Maybe he owns it. I don’t know. He always seems happy and kind. It does not make it easier. I knew she’d find another man; I just didn’t want her to find a better one.
For Christmas, he buys her a trip to the Bahamas. She squeals and leaps up and gives him a big hug. She always wanted to go, but we could never afford it.
He asks if she is happy, and she says yes, and I die a little bit more. He calls her "baby," and I wish I could punch him.
Luckily, she rarely brings Paul to our place. Most of the time she goes to meet him. A few times she does not come home at night. I seethe and spin and feel the rage building inside of me. Even though I know I shouldn't.
She needs this. Deserves it. But, still, I am right here. RIGHT HERE.
***
Paul asks her to marry him. She says yes. She jumps and wraps her arms around his neck, standing on her toes to reach him. They kiss. They plan. I seethe.
He is moving into our house in the suburbs, the one with the fence that I never got around to painting, but you just KNOW he will. They'll probably get a dog, because Paul is not allergic. I bet he will do woodworking in the garage when he's not volunteering at the orphanage, or whatever.
He will cut the grass and clean the kitchen and put up the Christmas tree. He will have my life, and I cannot do anything about it.
He will sleep in my bed and be with my wife, and I will just be a tourist. A visitor.
He keeps telling her how much he loves her. I hate Paul.
Why am I still here? This is torture.
***
We visit my grave today. She goes there, and I do, too. It turns out, I guess, that's the only other place I can go.
I had not been out of the house in years.
"I’m sorry I don’t visit as much anymore," she says, crying a bit, but not nearly as much as before. "I’ve tried to find the time, but it’s not easy. … God, I feel guilty … like I’ve let you down … but then I tell myself you’d want me to move on. You only ever wanted me to be happy. But, still, I can’t help but miss you."
It was the first time in a long time she had talked to me, directly to me. When I first came back home, she'd still occasionally talked to me, from time to time, as if I was still there. But that ended when she met Paul.
She says she's getting married. That she's in love. That I would like the guy she's marrying, but I already know I don't. She says she's sorry, and I think she should be.
She says she misses me and that she feels guilty. She cries more.
I try to tell her I did not want her to marry Paul, but nothing comes out. I just stand there, wishing I was in the grave not over it.
She leaves me flowers, and we leave.
***
I've gotten stronger with time. It's been years, but I can finally do things now when I'm really angry.
Sometimes, when Paul is sleeping, I stand over him and try to choke him.
It rarely works. But sometimes it does. He wakes up coughing and sputtering, and she gets him water and comforts him. But I don't care. I love it.
I feel great. Really great. Like I accomplished something.
In the kitchen, I smash plates and glasses and sometimes open cabinets. She and Paul are scared by, but it’s the only way I can show how angry I am. How discontent.
I'm stuck here, watching them, every day. It’s painful. They did this.
I'm always jealous. Angry. I spend most of my time seething. I barely remember who I used to be.
***
She hired someone to do a séance, which did nothing. I was still there. A priest blessed the house, but I was still there. They put up cameras and took photos -- just like those ghost hunting shows on TV that we used to watch -- but they saw nothing. I was still there, though.
I've tormented them with my rage for years, now. I can't see it ending. It's like a faucet I can't turn off.
"I know you can hear me," she says, speaking directly to me for the first time in ... I don't know. Ages? A lifetime?
She says my name. My actual name. It startles me. Frightens me. Not JUST because it had been so long since anyone said it, but because I'd never heard her say it with such ... venom.
She'd never hated me before.
"I know it’s you," she says. "I didn’t want to believe it. But I’m not a fool. Paul knows it’s you, too, but he hasn’t said it."
Her anger builds slowly, leaking out. She gathers herself, her voice low and loud at the same time.
"I want you to listen to what I’m saying: You HAVE to go. LEAVE US ALONE! Leave ME alone. Do you HEAR me? What do I need to say to make you stop? That I don’t LOVE you anymore? This isn’t your home anymore! … Why are you doing this?"
She breaks down in tears; full-body sobs. She is tired. She looks older. She looks frail. She has not slept in days. Weeks?
This is me. I did this. My jealousy and rage and anger destroyed the last thing I had to cling to, her love for me.
"Please ..." she begs, in between sobs.
For the first time in forever, I feel something other than anger. I feel ... everything, all at once. All the emotions. Compassion. Shame. Regret. Remorse. Guilt. Sadness.
They come at me like a reflex. Like a burst.
I used to be human. I used to be real. I used to love something -- someone -- other than my own pain.
So I stop. No smashing things. No rage. No choking. No more. I bottle whatever is there and bury it deep.
I love her. Still. I don't want to forget again.
But ... I'm still here.
***
I've been dead longer than I was alive.
She is older, now. Still beautiful, but older than my parents were when they died. She had surgery last fall and was in the hospital for two weeks.
Paul is old, too. He has a bad hip. He is on blood thinners.
They never had children. They never got a dog. They just lived together, loving each other. Every day.
I have watched their romance unfold for decades. Whatever I tried to do to stop it just made their love stronger.
***
I'm a distant memory. A flickering image. A chill that barely gives you pause.
She will die soon. I will lose her. Her health is in decline, just like Paul's was before he passed. I was there when he died. I saw it happened. She mourned him longer than she mourned me.
I realize that when she dies, so will I. Again. There is no one left who loved me, who remembered me.
Then what? I want desperately to move on to ... something else.
What happens to a memory when no one is left to remember it?
***
I don’t know where they are now that they’ve died, but I’m sure they’re together.
Paul was her true love -- the love of her life -- not me. It's true.
I'm no longer haunted by my past; I'm haunted by there's. I close my eyes and see them laughing. Their moments. Their memories. Their love.
He devoted his life to her for 37 years, with a depth and understanding I could not fathom.
When you think about it, I was just a supporting character in her life. I moved the story forward. I was the guy in the movie you had to get past to get to the real love story. I was an anecdote that gave their past depth, a richness mine never had.
I realize this as I sit alone in this suburban tomb.
Then it hits me: The thing that has kept me here, all these years ... is me. Not her. Not Paul. I was a ghost, yes, but I haunted myself.
I wanted to stay. Pain was my excuse. I warped and twisted my love into an anchor that kept me tethered to this life.
All this hits me in the darkness of our old house, long after it’s too late to fix the pain I caused.
In the end, I became a monster that refused to let go long after she needed me to. I felt entitled to my anger, instead of grateful for her love. I lingered far too long.
I accept my mistakes, and I release the anguish. The hurt. The self loathing. The memories.
I let go of Her, for the first time since she died, since I died.
I feel the flood of the past cease, and I’m just here. Present.
The chains snap, and I’m free.
I see a light now. It's distant but warm. It comforts me. I feel peace and love and grace.
The house fills with this light. It calls to me, and my heart answers it, freeing myself from these shadows. I’m not frightened or alone. I’m at peace, even though I do not know what's next.
Whatever it is, I hope there’s love.