People who used to be here but aren’t anymore. Their families miss them. Their friends wonder where they are. And sometimes, I don’t even know they’re ghosts.
To me, there has never been a clear separation between the world of the living and the world of the dead.
Sometimes, they aren’t ghosts—just people hanging by a thread, still trying to live. People who have learned to walk among us unseen.
I look into their eyes and catch a glimpse of the shine that used to be there. I try to reach them, sometimes even to touch them, but I cannot always get close enough. And yet, I can still feel them. I hear them when nobody else does.
They can still be here and yet feel so far away.
I hold on to this thread, even as it cuts my hands and makes me bleed. My blood falls onto the paper, and I write while I fight to keep them from drifting farther into the darkness.
They only have this thread.
I know that darkness. I was once very close to becoming a ghost myself, and then I came back by following the light of my loved ones.
I know what it feels like to need a light, so I share my love, my light. And what am I, if not all love?
I keep their memories like precious antiques: a photograph, a shirt, a bracelet, a note.
Little mementos carrying entire worlds inside them.
I gather them and place them on a table. I light a candle so the ghosts can find their way toward the light.
Sometimes, they pick up a memento and throw it against the wall.
“That’s not mine. Don’t give it to me.”
I want to tell them, It is yours. Don’t you remember?
But I’ve learned that fighting doesn’t help.
Sometimes, cobwebs cover their eyes. Memories, fears, and wounds are so tangled that they cannot see what I see. I cannot enter their world and clear the way. All I can do is sit beside my candle and wait.
And I know what happens when I give away all my warmth.
I become cold.
So I keep a room for them: a table covered with mementos, a candle that stays lit, a window open to the sun, and a fireplace. They can come and go as they please. They can remember or not. They can simply rest.
The room is there.
But I cannot stay in it all the time. I am alive, and I have a life to live.
A life that isn’t always joyful, but is peaceful. A life warmed by family, love , laughter, sunny days at the beach and kisses under the rain.A life where I no longer need to hide from the pain.
I understand why people hide. Sometimes the pain is too big, and there are too many thoughts. I understand because I’ve been there. And I was fortunate enough to find my way back.
That’s why I keep the room.
For those still searching through the cobwebs, not even knowing how blind they are.
I will keep living my life. I will carry the memories without carrying all their darkness.
I may leave the room, but I will always keep the light on and the door open.
Are you a ghost?
Come on in
You might just find your way back to life.