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The Friendly Ghost

The Friendly Ghost

The Friendly Ghost

 

Casper came into my awareness
out of nowhere the other morn.
 
Yes, that
Casper.
 
Winsome and affable, eyes pools of warmth and welcome, he nonetheless
appeared braced for the common greeting: ghost!!
 
For long has he
been gone.
 
Died as a little boy from pneumonia, having played long after nightfall, the
storybook goes; so like my grandpa John, though he died a young man.
 
A traumatic loss that haunted my mother throughout her life, through 
her death. Perhaps this is part of what’s been wanting to unearth
 
in this pandemic moment out-of-time, along with the pneumonia I contracted
while caring for my dying mum in hospital some years back.
 
But it seemed there was more
to this visitation.
 
Afraid to frighten, the iconically friendly ghost was reticent to show himself 
to my dumbfound apprehension of him so out of the blue.
 
So distant from my comic book reads of childhood summers past,
no reason to suddenly be perplexing this new spring day —
 
or so I’d hazarded; still, here he was
peering out of my shadows.
 
Once he sensed it was safe to come forward, he led me 
to other ghosts, shy to come into my seeing.
 
How very odd, I thought, as I glimpsed these fragile
ephemerals, all seemingly waiting 
 
for the lume of my inner candle
to shine them into presence.
 
So very many
ghosts.
 
Though it took a bewildered scratch of the head to auger this convergence, 
it dawned on me that each one was an aspect of my existence, 
 
whether in this life 
or another.
 
Each representing a small death of some part of the
consciousness that has streamed me into form
 
time and time
again.
 
Suddenly I felt a wave of softness
overwhelm me.
 
A swell of deep compassion for their hesitance 
to be. Present. In this now.
 
Wounds still smarting, pains still sharp,
succor still wanting.
 
These spirits sought merely to be acknowledged,
I now began to see, met, faced.
 
They were not seeking to frighten
or haunt my psyche.
 
They were frightened, hiding for fear
of being found…abhorrent.
 
This recognition drew me into such tenderness for them,
the weight they’ve carried, buried deep in my being —
 
those experiences that shattered my innocence, my awareness 
out of wholeness into fragmentation, seclusion, dislocation. 
 
Desolation. All the trauma they held that I was too busy striving,
surviving to notice, they kept within for me to find.
 
Tend, 
when ready.
 
Blanched and colorless for being kept in the dark for so long, away
from the central sun of my sentience, they now sought my light.
 
There were other ghosts hiding behind these, silent and shrouded, so like
Scrooge’s ghost of Christmas future — what do they hold, have to impart? 
 
Time will tell. And my ability to gather, reclaim these pieces of myself, 
once lost in the abyss of my dark, now seen and bidden to be 
 
here, close within me so that I may do what has been so long needed: 
hold them, honor them, love them.
 
Let them know it’s okay to heal, 
feel what they feel.
 
Dispirited,
ironically.
 
Cowered in the purgatory 
of my legion blindspots.
 
Broken, battered, powerless, forlorn, weak; too weak to fend 
for something more beautiful to feel was theirs to have
 
as real and true, and — impossible as it's seemed,
possible to realize in life. 
 
In form, and essence. In peace, 
and even joy.
 
Just as they are, as it is, 
as I — we — wish it to be. 
 
It’s all, all 
okay. 

*

© 2020 by Eve Moore.
© Photo by Eve Moore.

Eve Moore: Once a professional writer of advertising, I saw the light & it has shown me words of a different nature. And so I take them down & offer them up. And all is well. 

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
—Jimi Hendrix

This poem was submitted exclusively to CrystalWind.ca by Eve Moore.


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