In the midst of reflection, I look back at the summer and fall of 2009 and recognize myself for what I was:

A ghost of a woman.

I detached completely, cut the cords tethering me to life and its joys, because to feel joy, I would have to feel, period.  And what I felt was so immense, so heavy, that it threatened my very existence.  It was the dagger pressed to my breast and I found myself longing to rush against it, to submit at last to the demons that chase me from year to year and place to place.

I hid from them well enough to survive their onslaught, battening down my heart’s hatches.  But in doing so, I hid from the beauty I still had, even as I was losing so much.

Every ghost needs a home, it is sung.  This ghost has returned to hers, but not quite.  She holds the key, steps inside, but her suitcase is still packed.  She’s waiting for a reason to call the bus terminal.  She’s fearful of a storm that will send her running through the mud for a highway, her thumb outstretched in desperation, apathetic to what dangers may lie behind a stranger’s wheel.   She takes long walks, disappears, but like a cat, she returns, scratching at the back door.  She’s feral – but all she wants is to feel at home again.  Safe.

Have you seen my ghost?

Day 120:  Weighty Ghost – Wintersleep