What Made Me Believe In Ghosts

It was during my fall term. The leaves were turning and the Oregon weather was becoming more depressing by the minute. Obviously as a young adult freshly in the throes of the freedom that college allows, I was drinking on the regular.

My dorm had a policy of no drinking, of course. I was underage, but I was not going to be one of the kids who followed those rules. I was using partying as my coping mechanism to forget all the things I needed to feel. Much like the woman who birthed me. Including the ones that came before her.

This was the time to live as I always wanted to, unlike while I was under the strict tyrannical rule of my father and newly appointed step mother. But with that being said, there wasn’t a lot of options in terms of 'the disposal of the “evidence”'.

I couldn’t get rid of it at the university I went to.

I had this idea that they would magically trace it back to me, for whatever reason.

That my RA would stop me on the way. That my roommate would tattle on me. That there was hidden camera's watching my every move that would be plain proof of my disobedience.

With all of these bottles, I thougnt, "What was I to do?"

AH! An idea!

My house I had grown up in with my mother and sister was still in our procession. I grew up in the college town I currently went to. I had never wanted to go here but with circumstances accounted for, it was the easiest option.

My mother had passed earlier that year, my senior year, so I figured that would be the perfect place to get rid of my bottles.

My mom wouldn’t have minded, she had been one to know the lifestyle I was currently living. She wasn't one to judge. Plus on the bright side, the garbage was still being picked up regular. So I got in my car and drove straight there, the trunk full of the empty remnants of drunken nights. 

I finally got there, with the key in my hand and I walked in. The garage code was still the same. The trash and recycle still in the same spots where we always left them. I throw out the bottles but I feel this strange urge to reminisce. To take one last snapshot of what had once been, and how they stood still, forever in this purgatory I knew all too well.

If I’m being honest, I was probably still in the battle of grief, though I would never admit it then. I was too caught up in all I had to do, who I was supposed to be, and trying desperatly to show that I was more than okay.

No matter how hard I tried to shake it, I had this strange feeling to wander. I wanted to get a good look, for probably the last time, the image of my childhood home before it was completely changed forever.

The first stop in my mind was the pantry door.

We were the kind of family to mark the heights of everybody in the house as we grew up. A memento of time, that showcased the growth throughout the years. An accomplishment for me, as I always dreamed to not only be taller than my sister, but also reach my mother's status.

I never did make it to my end goal.

As I’m looking at the door I feel a weight around me. I don’t want to move but I must. I move to the kitchen and look through the house. It’s set up in a way that you can look from the kitchen, through the living room, all the way to my late mothers bedroom.

The door for some reason, is open...

Lights from the outside are shining in throughout the house but the hallway is dark. I see a silhouette and I feel fear. But yet, also strangely at peace.

I cannot breathe. I cannot move. I cannot blink. The figure is tall and slender, with a feminine appearance. Short hair, and a familiar feeling.

It knows me, and it’s watching me.

I know it’s her and yet I cannot believe my eyes, for they must be deceiving me. I don't know what to do.

She is smiling at me, her hand streched out, urging me towards her.

But I do not move. I cannot move in her direction. I know it's her.

My mother.

Who I both love and yet have always feared. I don't know how to deal with her presence and yet I have longed for this moment exponentially.

I smile, I move back to the pantry door, I close it, and I leave.

Weeks later, I visit a psychic. I didn't make the appointment myself. She didn't know who I was, or even my name. Yet, the first time we met she says, "You must be Liz's daughter."

She continues to tell me things I would never have shared, even to my closest friend. She tells me, "You've been back to the house".

I don't know how to respond, "Yes, our mothers house?"

"Yes," she replies. "You were scared, why?"

"Well, I didn't know if it was real." I answer honestly. "I didn't know how to respond to something like that."

"That's fair," she starts, "But you know it was her, you shouldn't have been afraid. She misses you. She knows you and wanted to see you, as you have wanted to see her."

I don't know how to respond to this.

"I was scared... How is a child supposed to react to seeing their recently dead mother in their home?", I ask.

"I can't blame you, but am only telling you," she starts, "She wants you to know, 'I am here for you, no matter what. I am always here. Grief is the love that has no where to go. So hold on to that love for me, and think of me when the butterfly comes."

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.”

• C. S. Lewis.