The Nature of Ghosts

Ghosts are funny creatures, aren’t they? There’s no getting rid of them completely. Every time you move, you bring them with you. You pull them from the back of your closet and fold them like a collared shirt, rectangular pieces of gauze, and place them neatly inside your suitcase. They go where you go. When you arrive at your destination, you unpack each one, shake them out, place them on hangers. Then the ghosts do what ghosts do best. They all but disappear.

My ghosts fooled me for a bit when I moved to Uganda. “Ah, ha!” I thought, “This time they didn’t follow.” But they did, my friends. They did.

When the world is dark and I am alone, they come. The ghost of a boy drawing circles in the sand. The ghost of a princess with a mole for a friend. The ghosts of a thousand memories and of the people who once mattered, who matter still.

But there’s something different about my ghosts this time. Frankly, I’m grateful for the company. It’s settling, really, to know that regardless of how much you’ve grown, or how much you’ve changed for the better, your ghosts are still there. They’ve walked the long path with you. They remember.

Certainly, I can’t walk around with them so close for forever. The gauze makes things hazy and creates a barrier between me and the rest of the world. But for now, I’m wearing my ghosts like blankets. Wrapped around my shoulders, they comfort me from the equatorial sun. From the strangers. From a ridiculously unpredictable world.