Meg in Transit

It’s that time of year when ghosts feel closer, when the veil between worlds thins. Golden leaves fall into shorter, darker days, and everything feels nostalgic, sentimental, a little bittersweet.

When I think of ghosts, I imagine two kinds: those who have passed on, and those we’ve had to let go, who still live and exist somewhere – versions of themselves carrying versions of us.

At this moment, I’m contemplating the second kind of ghost.

If we’re lucky, we fall in love many times: childhood infatuation, teenage lust, early adulthood’s “maybe this is serious” versions of love. Sometimes – often – it’s unrequited, unfinished, or simply imagined. A person falls in love with a form of someone that maybe never existed at all, or one that lasted only for a moment.

My first ghost is a bright, sunshine-y presence in my earliest childhood memories. I daydreamed of playground weddings and backyard make-believe: the knight rescuing the princess, the prince choosing the pauper. An uncomplicated ghost, hearts drawn in crayon on construction paper, the scent of pencil shavings and washable glue. The valentine’s card with my favorite sticker. A ghost that only evokes a smile, that feeling of a nap in the sun on a late August day.

My second ghost is a preteen theater ghost – need I even say more? A “Summer Nights.” “I bet he would pay more attention to me if my costume didn’t have shoulder pads” ghost. The one everyone loved, but who always greeted me with a grin. The one I looked forward to seeing every year, the one who wrote “love” on my last day of the show souvenir. The first kiss on stage, yet unrequited offstage love. The attend-every-performance-and-save-every-ticket-stub, dear diary, “I promise to do my homework if he responds to my message” love. The “I can’t believe he’s dating her” love.

This ghost remains on my periphery, now a cherished phantom. Not unfinished, but still a part of me. A comforting breeze when you’re sitting in a fold-up chair by the water on Labor Day weekend, the final chapter just before school starts. Settled, comforting, looked back on fondly. One who formed you, taught you heartache, but is now the “remember when he, when I, when we” laughing to tears, best of memories ghost.

Another ghost is a will-they-won’t-they ghost. At twenty, “we were really just friends, the timing never worked out, but I do think I loved him” type. The sit-and-chat-for-hours ghost, inside, warm, while the air turns crisp on an October eve. The tell-you-about-my-day, my-week ghost. The walk-past-your-office-just-in-case, “are you sure nothing is going on there? There’s really nothing going on; we sit across the room from each other.” “Here, take my gloves because your hands are cold” ghost.

The one you revisit years later, just in case, simply becomes the dependable, “it’s best that nothing happened because now we’ll always have each other” spirit. The “happy birthday, merry everything, hope you’re doing well, let’s catch up soon” ghost; warmth against the cold because you’ll always be friends.

You might think there’d be another ghost here… but the “this is what I’m supposed to do” that became “actually, I choose myself” left no ghost at all. It’s growing and wishing for lost time, but having gratitude for the lessons. A no-regrets goodbye. An I-forgot-the-used-to-be-important-days-so-quickly disappearing mist, dust, or otherwise. A settled, closed door. What a lovely thing to not be haunted by.

A recent ghost has a letter of his own: an unlikely summer ghost, entirely different from the back-to-school, autumnal, and winter-time ghosts. Warm, bright, and sunny, a little reminiscent of that first ghost. A newly awakened, easily broken heart type of ghost. A “did that really happen? It sounds like a movie!” almost-love apparition. You can read that letter, but time can heal a broken heart, and I’ve learned to greet this ghost with appreciation.

There are the memories of ghosts – brief haunts – the ones who appeared for a lesson or two, perhaps a laugh, a tear, a glimpse of a maybe. The ghosts who lingered only for a moment, now walking unknowable paths, recalled in fleeting ways and passing seconds: a song, a meal, a joke, a scent. An “I wonder…” before they vanish once more.

Most ghosts were kind – short-lived aches, gently fading. Some, one, made me wonder if he was ever anything but a ghost, only the promise of what could be. A fictional being, shifting shape to suit whoever he was with, whispering sweet nothings and offering empty promises. An almost-winter shadow, the sort that disappears in an instant, without a glance. A rare, cruel ghost masquerading as the one I might have loved if he’d been a different spirit entirely. Even still, this too will fade, softened by time, turned to memory. Leaving behind only what I’ve learned: what I need to feel whole, what I deserve to call love.

The veil is thin this time of year; the light turns golden, the air carries memories. And so, I live among my ghosts, not haunted, but accompanied. Each one a piece of what was, what could have been, and – if I’m lucky – what will be.