Ghost of a Ghost
It was the day before scattering the ashes of my friend Walter. I visited the grieving, turbulent family’s street. I write ‘street’, not ‘house’, because they had two houses on that street, at opposite ends of the block. Such was his family’s turbulence. I could say more, but that would be a long story.
The ash-scattering was to happen far away, early the next day. We all had to start out early in the morning, so I stayed over for the night. The only bed free for me was Walter’s.
As I prepared for bed, I wondered if I would dream of him. Will I meet his ghost? In Walter’s turbulent circle of dramatic fantasists, for him to become a ghost would be normal. But I wasn’t scared. In fact I welcomed a spooky encounter. I turned off the light, laid down in Walter’s bed, and closed my eyes.
The next thing I knew, it was morning. I was awake and refreshed. My mind was clear. I remembered no dreams at all.
That’s when I knew, deep down, that Walter was gone. Ever since then I have been haunted by the presence of his absence.
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