Amidst the Mists 7

He was still in the bed, but sitting up more and better. 

In other words, he was getting bored. 

Tonight, for several rare minutes, he had been alone, while voices and doors

and all the sounds of a full busy household sounded around him.

He watched out his extravagant window as the darkness fell, long and slow,

and the mists gathered off the lake and wandered down from the treetops. Winding,

whirling, dancing. 

He thought of the clean living smell, and wished he was out there once more.

“No, you don’t,” a voice said next to his ear and he looked around but no one

was there.

“You aren’t here, go away,” he said crossly.

“Now how can I go away if I’m not here?”

“I don’t know how you’re here when you aren’t here.”

“Temper, temper.”

“Oh shut up!”

His wife looked into the room. “Do you need something? Are you talking

to me?”

“No. Just – just talking, I guess.”

“My silly man,” she said, came in and kissed him on the forehead and

adjusted the covers around him, like he was one of the children. 

“Don’t,” he ordered, but then caught her hand before she could retreat. 

She waited. 

“Do you s’pose, ” he said hesitantly, “that I could sit in the window?”

“With night coming on? Do you think that’s – safe?”

“If it’s not, I have more work to do on the window. Besides, night air being

sick isn’t true.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah. I do.” He turned her hand over and studied it, then rubbed it softly. 

They were silent together, then she sighed. “Jesse and Jonny

are still here. I’ll send them in to help you.”

“Alright.”

“You have to let go of her hand,” the voice beside him advised him. “She’ll

stand there all night letting you hold her hand.”

He sighed, and let the hand go free.

Residuals

I wonder these days about hauntings.

To be honest, I've never thought about hauntings much -- I grew up knowing they happen. It's only recently that I've been wondering about the details and operation of the act of haunting.

I want to think that Rex is somewhere else, healthy, happy, unworried. For all my loneliness and lostness, I don't want him to be lingering here, taking care of me/us/things. I want him to be at peace.

That said, spirit or not, something of him does linger here,
Every room is infused with his presence.
Especially this front room where he spent all his time the last months of his life.

There's a concept, in paranormal circles, of residual haunting.
The definition is something like a recording that plays, over and over. A lot of legendary ghosts seem to be residuals. They do the same things, say the same things, are in the same places, time after time. All the white ladies gliding down stairways (even, in some cases, when the stairway is no longer in that part of the room). All the Weeping Widows wandering the garden paths. Crying babies and angry men. Sounds of swords clashing and battleaxes slashing on a peaceful sunny day.

Some are video recordings, some are audio only.

There's a presence here, Rex's presence. It is impressed upon the house; imbued into the walls.
Now this may be true only for me or for us. When we go, so may that presence.
(And then we will know a different measure of loss and loneliness, but that's another topic for another day.)

I think I can live with this.
I think his presence can be here, while his spirit is not.
Just as his voice or his image could be on a recording. (If I had any. My little  recluse.)
Playing the recording would not mean he was here, just that he had been.




I just hope I am right about it.

Writing a Blog

I like writing a blog. (I must like it I have two)I like the informal language and that I can devote as many or as few words as I wish to my chosen topic. I get to choose the topics, too. That's pretty neat.

Blogging, however, has infected my other writing. Once used to the chatty style, it can be difficult to switch to other voices. It -- that casuality -- sneaks into everything I write. Informational articles, reflective essays, editorials, even personal letters and journal entries have all begun to sound like a xhat.

I'm not complaining, just noting. I'm a writer, and blogging has given me a chance to do just that for a larger audience than just family and friends. It's not the only thing I can write, or the only way to write. I have many voices, depending on what I want to communicate.

It's just funny how the 'blog voice' keeps creeping in. It's like the 'y'know's and 'like's that are really annoying when you're waiting for the person to get to the meat of the story being told. It takes attention and practice and active correction to change that speech pattern.

Another good thing is that writing a blog is a way to learn deadlines . I try to -post at least twice a week on this blog. I'm happy if I can do three times a week, but I wonder if that gives my readers enough time to savor whatever I've written. I may be giving them too much credit. Nah, my readers are all intelligent people and many are writers themselves.  My other blog (www.areyoumycousins.wordpress.com)I update once a week. It is more of a family oriented/ genealogy / history theme. Because I find those things interesting.

Anyway, I love writing. I love the chance to write on a regular, if self-imposed, basis. I love what I can learn about writing through the actual act of writing.I love what I can learn from my readers.

Heck, I just love to write and I am glad to have an outlet for my genius.

Thanks for letting me share ME with YOU.