…haunts an inn in Falmouth. My ghost runs the beach in Truro and wades down the wooded road a mile offshore. She spins the light in the lighthouse in Chatham.
Dear Ghost,
There we were. I was sitting next to an empty hotel pool reading Oscar Wilde when I met you, drinking a Napa Cabernet from a paper coffee cup in the middle of the afternoon, listening to the early Spring Northeastern wind howl through the pines beyond the glass. I didn’t have to be outside to feel it. You were just as chilling. I saw your shadow in the foggy bathroom mirror before my features were crisp-enough in the image to distract me.
And so here we still are, like a tree who’s trunk divided as it grew.