Ghosts

Ghosts
For D.C. 11/2004


My friend, the other day
we stood at a crossroads, you and I,
discussing  what may have changed between us, and why,
    and how to proceed from here,
when I realized
  what we were talking about
was Ghosts.

The women in my family understand all too well the concept of ghosts.
We inherit them, along with an X chromosome, from our mothers at birth,
  and learn to recite their lessons through childhood as if learning
a different sort
of multiplication table,
so much they start defining the chart of our lives;
unless, as adults, we are determined
to break
    their grip upon our psyches.
And 100 years is a long legacy, indeed, to escape.

Often, our ghosts are invisible in crowds, during the daylight, while the sun is on high, but return, as vampires
  to feed upon our dreams in the vague obscurity  and disquiet that mark
the pitch blackness
    of the soul past midnight,
disturbing more than just our sleep.

You say, in essence, the ghosts are too strong, better to not even give them the chance of awakening.
If not stirred, they cannot haunt us
    and you will never bear responsibility  of adding to their destructive influence. You would spare me that pain.
You are right, in a logical way, of course, but…
I wonder, is there another way
of looking
  at ghosts?

I am not the frail creature you think me; the ghosts I have been acquainted with
      drip with blood and sadness and abuse of power,
reeking of violence, betrayal, and loss, and I say
‘Release the warrior spirit and kill the bastards
where they stand’ and then they almost won but in the end, ah in the end,
    they didn’t.
And I came forth holding my damaged self together with a  bandage of
  some bizarre brand of  faith that may not be real but
sometimes is all I have left
            and is strong enough to make me laugh or cry my way through another confusing day.

Would I have found it without the driving influence of the ghosts
  that pushed me twice 1000 miles and to the brink of my own demise in search of the identity the ghosts tried to deny me?

I have long avoided your gaze, my friend, for, you see,
Your eyes are, to me, like the Will o’ the wisp that lead the unwary traveler to drown in the murk and shadows.
And yet across that expanse, lit as with the fire of the sun dancing on the waves as the storm breaks,
    I would gladly explore a kind of death in that icy blue water.
Did you know I look intently there for clues,
  of what I am supposed to learn
  from this fine madness,
but, as far as I can tell, all I see, is evidence,
of the presence
  of Ghosts?

What ghosts have followed you, friend, across two continents and more,
    and was it you or they who constructed your remarkably impenetrable fortress?
And, more importantly, just why the hell,
    do I really even care?

Ghosts around me, above me, below me, trying to lick my wounds with hungry muzzles redolent of saccharin coated lies,
  waiting to feed upon me should my steps falter but a moment in this space.
Yet here stand I
      before the judgment of the sea and sun.
I hold in my hands a small, fragile thing of a spun glass-like material, that I have wrought myself
  of the remnants of my Self.
It is translucent and shimmering in this light, too strong for words, and the waves pound on as the maelstrom howls, but look,
it really is a beautiful thing,
and it is all I have of my world to offer. And it IS beautiful and pure.

  If there is strength intrinsic in Beauty, it may offer some sort of protection
against ghosts.
With all the courage I can muster,
    I hesitatingly approach you, my friend
and on hands scarred and blistered and outstretched
carefully offer this strange and wondrous thing to you.

I have now stood down my grandmother’s and my mother’s and even most of my own ghosts-
I would not be afraid to tackle yours.