Revenant and Reflection

The road quivers with pooling rain.

I still have an awareness of his shape – the look in our eyes effortlessly reflecting one another – gush, froth, dismember.

At work the question is blithely asked: if you were a ghost, where or whom would you haunt? I said nothing, knowing full well one doesn't have to be dead to haunt or be haunted. Instead I wondered what shape we really are, dead or alive. Soon enough, we move from something touchable – a pen, a pink tulip, your favorite mug – to something muslin – filled with light and air – breathing like curtains in the late summer breeze.

And what's after that? What is this thing in us that cannot be seen or touched? In what forced occupation are we participating?

The sink hole in the back yard widens and smells like sewer. The car breaks down and we all are straining and stressing trying to find a way to get to work. Snow is still falling despite every other sign that it is spring. There is no stasis. That is what is see in all things reflective.

So much of my life has been based on waiting. The cardinal chirrups before dawn, not waiting on me, not waiting on anyone. He finds the feeder and my joy is inexpressible.

Do we love because we are loved? One day, my ghost was unwrapped from nonbeing, arriving in gauzy light and spilling manna everywhere. The apparition guided me through a house of mirrors to the remembrance of Love. I lived, but do I still?