It was four years ago this past Tuesday that you went into the sickhouse and never came back out. You told me it wasn't your last rodeo and I spent longer than I'd like to admit being angry at you for unintentionally lying to me. Whenever I look up at the ridge of Leavenworth Mountain, toward the ruins of Waldorf on the other side of that ridge, where we scattered your immolated bones, I smile bittersweetly, thinking perhaps you're really not that far away after all.
When I saw her kneeling to snap a photograph, I saw you. Right down to the Carhartt ranch jacket. The same hair-before you got sick and the chemo shaved you bald-and the same smile. Even a similar lack of chin. I tried very hard not to stare.
With purposeful stride I put some distance between us. Once I rounded a corner, I caught myself trembling slightly. As with most any time I see a ghost of memory, I found myself rattled. There were so many things I wanted to ask and tell, but she wouldn't have understood. But part of me thinks I should be grateful for that doppelganger in the Carhartt ranch jacket that looked so disturbingly like you. If I allow myself a moment of superstition, I could theorize it was your way of letting me know you're really not that far away after all.
Seems almost rude to intrude on this reverent piece by commenting, but I must anyway. Wonderfully written. In a cyber-wasteland of rather dull blogs, yours is one that is genuinely worth reading for the literary merit.
ReplyDeletePlus you're a struggling Buddhist, a lover of wilderness, and (apparently) a liberal in your politics. A kindred spirit, to be sure.
—Mercurious—
Heretical Buddhist...no real struggle there ;p.
ReplyDeleteThank you for your kind words...
Beautiful post...
ReplyDeleteGhost messages. The best part is that you recognize it when appear. No wonder they visit you...
Thank you. Although, at first, I couldn't help but wonder if the universe was fucking with me.
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