The circle of people who loved me and went away grows larger.
They stand against western sky, colored by the sunlight they took with them. When they speak, it sounds like running water. I’m the only one left here who remembers some of their stories.
Tonight, I stand outside. The porch bulb only reaches so far—about to the very edge of Messy Woods. The dogs are casting back-and-forth, peering into the dark trees but careful to remain inside the yellow circle of light. The edges of grass and brick path, a birdbath, the lawnmower I need to put away, are a lot like my life—just a few visible things before the wide, unseen world begins.
I wait beside a northern forest, but I don’t need to see the Pacific Ocean to believe in sweet waves and sand.
The coolest guy I ever knew, my second father, the guy with the fastest motorcycle, a black-belt-mirrored-sunglasses-Fonzie, once rode kamikaze down California canyons. (Loser buys the beers at the bottom.) Scream the engine, lean hard enough at seventy to scrape the yellow line and never mind the three-hundred-foot drop. He never had to buy. Not once.
Not so long ago, he got hit by a pickup truck early morning as he crossed a highway on foot. Somehow, he got too old and slow to get out of the way. The newspaper called him an elderly pedestrian, but I knew something different.
I don’t need to see him to remember the snarl and swoop of Kawasaki Ninja. I still believe in his movie-star smile as he pulls off his helmet.
Thinking about a woman I knew, the kindest person I ever met. Twenty years after I left the South, I still promised to take her to breakfast, every time we spoke. I’d surprise her, I said, the next time I got back down to where they grow biscuits and peaches and high school football players.
She always saw the world better than I did, and sometimes a quick note from her made enough peace to gentle my waters. I never heard her voice raised, but she stayed stronger than any of us. She didn’t make a big deal about the gremlin that made her thin and finally took her, so I didn’t think it was a big deal, either. There were no good-byes the last time we talked.
She liked kept promises, so I don’t need to see her to figure she’s nursing a cup of coffee in some red-dirt Waffle House, waiting for me to walk in and pick up the check.
I don’t need to see you either, Ghost. Sometimes, the wind shifts and I smell you—warm fig and vanilla, orange peels and the clean perspiration in your hair.
My mom whispered to me once, in church. She wore a mantilla and high heels and perfume, wrapped her fingers in a rosary. She told me that the stained glass, painted statues, holy water, and incense were exactly the same, all over the world. You wouldn’t get lost if you could find a steeple. That’s why they called it sanctuary, she said. Every strange place turned into home, and she liked that. It made her safe.
Our church is maybe a little different, Ghost, but we know about that kind of home. We feel the same about bus stations, highways, sundowns, and record stores.
Our congregation remembers what Prell shampoo smells like. We wore Adidas and jean jackets before Springsteen did. We know the sound of a V-8 with a stroker kit, ready to lift off. We’ve tasted Molson Golden ale and pizza on somebody’s front porch.
We all heard the telephone ringing in the kitchen, heart-drop an hour before a first date. Our gang laughs when somebody throws up as soon as they wobble off the Zipper. We know the air is always a little cooler when you get off the streetcar at lakefront. We hate disco, but play the BeeGees when nobody’s around. We’ve landed at LaGuardia, back when it looked like a dirty Greyhound depot, and we felt the instant electricity of New York City, just outside.
I don’t want to be the last one left who watched the Brady Bunch at lunchtime.
Tonight, I stand outside. I got the rest of the berries the neighbor brought back from the cottage last fall out of the freezer, and tossed them into the blender with some ice cubes. Blueberries taste green, not blue, and it always surprises me a little. I don’t drink beer these days, so slush has to do for this toast. I raise my glass toward the dark woods, to the gone ones.
I don’t need to see you, Ghost.
When mosquitos start to bite and frogs start to sing, I call the dogs and head inside.
