We can see it, if we try hard enough. There is a veil between this world and the other, and it thickens the further away from these fragile days. Nearer we draw to All Hallows Eve, the more gossamer it becomes, so translucent it shines, so thin we can walk through it, as they looking back towards us can. Just beyond this curtain, opaque in the Springtime warmth, all those we have lost, these many souls taken from the bodies we knew, we held, we memorized in the dark hours.
We are haunted by the love we could not give to them, and sometimes we run from the ghosts we think we see. Out of the corners of these eyes we catch movement, call them tricks of light, call them imagination run rampant, though somewhere in us we know, they are those we cannot hold, not now, not here with human hands and the feebleness of our failings. Terrified we find ourselves at the noises in the night, call for exorcism to clear the space of spirit, of sound. Forgetful lot, we dwellers in flesh, that not all ghosts are here to scare, that some hauntings are kind.
So quick we are to call villain all that frightens us, to demonize what hurts, what stirs ache in the still healing centers of us. Loss is a vicious thing, no matter the circumstances that precede it, it comes at us with claws sharp and teeth bared, hunts us into small rooms with few exits, blocks them with its shadow. Over time it shifts, doesn’t it, transforms from piercing to dull, throbs in the background of all we do, see, and feel, but stays. Then comes days like these, nearer to the evening of the thinnest shroud, and the voices once a whisper begin to roar. We can hear them, if we listen close enough, we can make out words instead of noise. These conversations with these departed, even if audible only to us, offer an opportunity rare, they are a chance to reconcile the loss, to understand the nature of that aching throb in the middle of ourselves.
Perhaps it’s here, we should begin. Perhaps there is an art form to exorcism, and perhaps we can practice. Maybe if we say the right words, offer up the right incantations, we can exorcise away the negative aspects of the ghosts that haunt us, whilst maintaining their presence. Maybe it’s only us that brings the fear to the table, misunderstanding the signs they offer, the sighs they speak out, maybe we attempt translation only to fail, misinterpreting their sounds in the darkness as those of frightful intent. Maybe, they offer comfort, and maybe their presence is there because we need it there, maybe they don’t go because we’re not ready for them to go. Maybe it is not them that lingers, but us, and our aching the thread that anchors them there, just beyond that shivering cloak.
We are never ready, though we lose this each swim through the sea of grief that comes, and so must learn it again. We tie knots tight to those that go, long strings to the papier-mâchè squares that make up the kites of their spirits, we run headfirst away from the wind, hoping they’ll fly, but stay close enough to reel in should we feel their absence. Somewhere in this steering, this desperate winding and unwinding as the winds shift and lightning threatens, we forget to just let them go, to watch them lift higher, then higher, until they are a freckle on the face of the sky, then so far they become everything all at once. We hold them, and so we’re haunted by this, finger taps on shoulder blades though the house is empty.
Let it be these nights, these few that build to the night of emaciated veil, those few that follow it, that teach us to exorcise away the pieces we no longer need, but hold on to the memories instead. Let us be haunted by the way we loved, not by the love we cannot still share, for we can still give without receiving in return, we can always give this love, freely to those we think we feel in the emptiness after midnights. Maintain their presence, not in spectre or shadow, but in the soft silhouettes of dreams, of our fond remembering, our treasured time together. Exorcise the demons they never were, but our inability to let loose our kite strings created, cut them, and let them find the clouds again.
There is veil here, and we can see it, soon it will be thin enough to fall through, to peer beyond and see the comfort those gone still offer. Now it is ours to give, this gift of submission to the ache that is ours to carry, we who stay behind. Not all ghosts are here to scare, some are here to remind us, to comfort us, to call out in voices we barely hear with doubtful ears, asking for us to listen, to let them go, to heal and in doing so, grant them peace.
Hands to the mist between us, palms up, in softness, “If not now,” they whisper, “when?”
Don’t exorcise them,
not all ghosts are here to scare.
Some hauntings are kind.
Some Hauntings Are Kind | 10.29.23