Ghosts

Ghosts.

         The wind whips through my hair as I head down the winding stone path, almost as if it is guiding me, pulling me towards my destination. Large gray clouds hover in the sky, threatening to burst at any second and spoil the mid-afternoon sunshine. It has been years since I have entered the corroded black gates of Mt. Hope Cemetery, yet I still know every inch of the grounds. Onward I press, passing row after row of ancient headstones, disintegrating reminders of lifeless humanity. This memorial park dates back to the early 1800s.

         Mt. Hope is a beautiful sight. Plush green grass and brilliantly colored flowers cover almost every inch of the vast enclosure. There is only one place that remains barren. My place. I have no family or friends here, so it should seem as though I am intruding. Strangely it never has. I've always felt at peace here. What I refer to as "my place" definitely belongs to someone else; someone whose last name is Williams.

         The first hint of rain sprinkles down upon me as I reach my destination, the timeworn bench that doubles as a grave marker. It was Sarah that brought me here my first time, though I looked more like the type of person who hung around in graveyards than she did. We were seventeen and determined to break as many rules as we could. The sun was long since gone from the sky as we made our way up the same path I'm walking now. She was excited, having found the perfect place for us to swill cheap vodka, away from parental authority. I was in awe of the massive stone bench, mystified at the idea that someone intentionally had their tombstone made to be sat on. Its beauty is simplistic, rounded edges carved from a light gray stone. The family name is the only inscription carved into the coarse surface. The bench makes up one side of a square of much smaller tombstones; all bearing the last name "Williams." It is in this area that the grass does not grow. There is a plant hanger in the center of the square, the iron bent to form a heart just above where the basket would hang, but I have never seen any flowers here. The only sign of life is a large red-barked tree that lends its unnecessary shade to the deceased members of the Williams family.

         Sarah and I often met at the witching hour, spending long inebriated nights smoking cigarettes and talking about anything and everything. Growing up, I never had any close friends. There were always people around me, but none that I could confide in. None that knew the real me. In contrast, Sarah was friends with everyone. Most people usually begged to become her new best friend upon meeting her. She accepted everyone on the outside, but privately she had negative thoughts about most people. You can see why I never quite trusted her as a friend, but it was in these nights spent in the dark, empty cemetery where I came close. This was where I found acceptance.

         The rain is starting to come down hard now, yet I still remain sitting on the tombstone of the unknown Williams. Shivering, I pull my sweatshirt tighter and tuck my dirty Converse sneakers under my legs. The ground surrounding the bench is littered with discarded cigarette butts and I wonder if any of them could possibly have been mine. A relic from a time when I did not yet know myself; when I was so lost that I may have desecrated the sight of someone's burial for my own selfish reasons. With this thought, I become sure that some of these cigarettes must have belonged to Sarah.

         For a while, I continued to come here long after Sarah and I had gone our separate ways. Whenever I needed a moment of clarity, I would come out to the bench and spend long hours just thinking about the turns my life has taken. For a while I came there to mourn, just not for any of the graveyard's many inhabitants. I would take my place upon the bench and bleed out the anguish I felt at not knowing my place in the world. I know myself now, and no longer am I one of the lost, begging for acceptance from an unworthy source.

         Many people would probably say that what I do is morbid or downright creepy. I disagree. Nothing makes me appreciate my life more than being in the presence of the dead. As I dust off my worn-in jeans and head back up to the iron gates, I wonder why I ever stopped coming here in the first place.