'Til Death

I suppose being a ghost is like waking up early while the rest of the world slumbers; Even though you're alone, you get to appreciate dawn with new eyes. For a moment, I can almost feel the brisk morning air, the amber light that thaws my ever-cold presence, and I think, well, this isn't terrible. But then the world begins to stir, people flood the streets, and I am reminded of my isolation. I'd give up an eternity for just one more day, but I've realized that thought is nothing original. Anyone would say the same. How many of us had forgotten the miracle of each day, so busy with meaningless tasks that we failed to bask in the glory of life? We must be so eager for the mundane that we don't understand how little it matters when death envelopes us like a heavy shawl. 

I pushed aside my philosophical thoughts, death tends to do that to a person, and began my walk to the French Quarter, where I'd visit Lucinda. She'd ironically lounge around the St. Louis cathedral every day, her table beckoning tourists for a tarot card or palm reading. Everyone was enchanted by her, from the countless bangles on her arm to the voluminous afro perched atop her head; that woman was Louisiana's Cajun Medusa. And just like everyone else, I had become a fool for her. The way she moved gracefully, like a dancing serpent, I visited every day just to be swayed by her jasmine aroma. 

"Dear friend, you've made these little visits a bad habit." She spoke out loud in the wind, never knowing my direction but always sensing my presence. 

Her customer looked at her warily, in which she smiled coyly and merely pointed to her forehead. "The voices." 

Oh, how I adored that sense of humor. As the cautious lady paid and left, I sat in the seat she left open just for me. 

"You could never be a bad habit, mademoiselle." I purred. She laughed heartily. 

"And yet here you are for the third time this week. Don't expect me to believe that is a coincidence." 

I shrugged, even though I knew she couldn't see it. "What can I say? We all have our weaknesses."

"You sure know how to charm a woman," she giggled, adjusting the folds in her colorful skirt.

"Only the ones who deserve to be charmed." 

There was a silence among us, and I yearned to say what I was feeling, what I had felt since the moment I met her. As she looked in my direction, I imagined she and I were just two ordinary people enjoying an ordinary conversation. She would tease how I sat so rigidly, and I would run my thumb along each ring of her finger as I held her hand. What a simple dream I wish never to wake up from. But when I inevitably awaken from my daydream, I'm shoved by the reality of the situation and thus remain silent. 

"You didn't tell her." Ruth flipped through another page, an insipid expression on her wrinkled features. She may be seventy-five years old, but she had the sass of a teenage girl. 

"No," I admitted, pacing her room in the quaint nursing home I had grown fond of visiting. She dramatically sighed before promptly hurdling the book toward my voice. 

"You fool!" she screeched. "You know, one of these days, I'll finally croak and give you a firm beating."

I chuckled. I always found her tantrums amusing. 

"Don't laugh at me, boy, you're the one acting like the clown. In all my years, I've never known someone so stupid." She paused, contemplating. 

"Besides my second husband, he was a dim-wit on his good days. But oh my days, did he have one hot bod!" 

"Please don't describe your past affairs. And what do you expect from me, Ruth? I am a ghost in love with a living girl. A life with her is impossible."

She scowled before wobbling out of bed and going to retrieve her book. I was tempted to laugh again at the cover, which showed a brooding half-naked man and an equally attractive woman clutching each other. 

"Only weak-minded people say that word. They say ghosts can't be real; it's impossible. And yet here I am, bickering with one while reading erotica. Nothing is impossible."

And that is why Ruth was the second woman I loved. She was vulgar, bitter, and incredibly wise. 

I walked home, at least what I considered home, a small house for sale on a cul de sac. It made me feel human again to watch the neighbors grill and their children play in the street. 

As I stepped through the door, another tsunami of loneliness hit me. This can't be all there is, can there? I thought. Surely there's more for me. I mulled over the idea of wandering this empty house and people-watching out my window all night. But then I thought of what Ruth said and found she was right. I had to believe that nothing was impossible.

I wish I could knock on her vibrant yellow door, but instead, I glided right through. She stood in the kitchen, whisking batter and humming to Leon Bridges. As I approached, she abruptly stopped and put the bowl down. 

"So we're making house visits now, are we?"

"How did you-" 

She shook her head with a laugh. "Antoine, you are the thunder in a raging storm; I may not see you, but your presence is always known."

"You can't speak to me that way," I rasped, "And expect me not to love you." 

She looked up from the bowl, and I could swear she was looking straight at me. 

"Well, you shouldn't expect me to love a dead man."

Desperation clung to my being, and I blurted it out before I could stop myself.

"You could love me before." I expected her to be taken aback, confused, or startled, but her face remained stoic. I knew then she had known who I was this whole time.

"Yes, but on that altar, I distinctly remember saying 'til death do we part."

"Mon amour, why should death part us?" 

"Because I'm still alive," she wailed. "Does that mean nothing to you? Do I not deserve to live without you impatiently waiting for me to die?" 

I stumbled back. "Lucinda, I would never-"

"Oh, stop it. You are many things, but you're no liar." She looked away, her hand shaking as she ferociously wiped her tears. 

"That's what you want, right? For us to be reunited again? To feel each other, for me to see you when we're arguing?" 

I didn't dare answer, scared my voice would break as much as my heart had.

"Antoine, baby, I've already lost you. You're gone. I gave you the benefit of the doubt at first because, deep down, I needed you to cope. I was grateful to hear your voice and know you were watching over me. But now we're just grasping at what we used to have." 

She sighed, squeezing her eyes shut. Then she made her way to the living room where I stood.

 "I've been Lucinda the wife and Lucinda the widow. Now, I want nothing more than to be Lucinda."

I sank into the silence, letting myself be swept outside and down the streets of New Orleans to an unfamiliar place. Then, I allowed the grief to crumble me. I was engulfed in self-pity and anguish, just as I had always been since my death. The thought had me standing up. I would spend an eternity feeling sorry for myself unless I made a change.

"Oh, what do you want now?" Ruth huffed, clearly irritable from when I woke her from her nap.

"A letter," I said. "I need you to write me a letter." 

I waited all morning for the mailman to drop off the letter. I waited all evening for her to take it out of her mailbox and read it. I waited all night for her to weep over the piece of paper, and when she had picked herself up again, I was finally done waiting for my Lucinda. 

Ma Cherie, 

We don't like to think about dying.

It ties our stomachs into knots and reminds us that we're mortal. 

I've had a lot of time to think about death. Ever since I spent my final days in that hospital bed squeezing your hand, It's been on my mind. It became a part of me. I let the cancer corrupt my body and mind and let death erode the rest. I was already dead before I died.

I suppose being a ghost is like being human. We are all alone, Lucinda. Our souls will never be fully understood. I was young when I met you and thought our souls spoke a language only we knew. I began to adore all the little things about you. The way you left your makeup on every counter space and yodeled in the shower. You drank more cream than coffee, hated cucumbers, but loved pickles, even the little scar above your brow from childhood. I worshiped you and, in turn, worshiped a fantasy of us. I put too much pressure on you, expecting a perfect romance that never truly existed. We are creatures that think and act and love, but we'll only truly be satisfied once we think and act and love for ourselves. I've only lived to love you, and in death, I'm finally learning I had forgotten to love myself first. 

I'm sorry it has taken me so long to realize how right you were. I was waiting for my problems to be solved, and I thought you were my answer. It turns out I was the answer all along. 

I'll always hold you dear to my heart, Lucy. May you continue to grow as resplendent with age and find a soul that genuinely speaks with yours.

'Til death,

Antoine