It was sunset when a pair of people climbed to the top of a hill. It overlooked a stretch of grassy plains, rising and falling with the breadth of the land. At its peak perched a great oak, fiery in the autumn bloom. The pair nested comfortably at its roots, pulling the crisp evening air into their lungs. They didn’t look at each other as they spoke. Staring out at the familiar scene but seeing none of it. Their gaze on nothing in particular.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” the girl asked. The boy started. The question had come out of nowhere. Suddenly. He stayed quiet, wondering if she’d simply change topics if he didn’t answer. But after a few moments, he said, “Of course.” He had lived with ghosts his whole life. Both dead and alive. The ghosts of his father and that final, whispered, “Good-bye.” The ghost of his lover’s smile, now long gone. The silent ghost of that unspoken, “I love you.” They way it echoed after his first love and heartbreak. Ghosts were and had always been both lesson and reminder. He told the girl this. Confusion then a dawn of understanding flooded her face. “I see,” she murmured.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked her. A wry smile flickered across her lips. “Why, of course,” she responded. Her mother, a ghost in her own skin, barely recognized her own daughter. Still she called out to the ghost of a child who has long since passed, and who was never truly there. She would always remember the ghost of the girl still tethered to her. Seen in the scars and burns that will never truly fade, reflected as she stares in the mirror. Ghosts are the planted seeds of where we come from, tiny from our vantage point but there nonetheless. She shares her thoughts with the boy and he nods.
They say no more on the subject, continuing to stare at nothing in particular. But when they leave, brushing away stray leaves, a part of themselves wil remain behind. Wandering that hill from dusk till dawn and dusk again. And when their ghosts come to rest, they will lean against that great oak, shoulders just brushing. Staring at nothing in particular.
Here’s another short story/narrative! Let me know what you think and leave any suggestions you have in a comment!
Until next time,