My Ghosts

My ghosts are not really ghosts.

I know that.

But those closest to me when alive

Seem to never have left me.

I feel their presence in a song that a friend and I happily ruined by dancing and/or singing.

I close my eyes and I can see the two of us making goofy gyrations

And in my ears I hear a melody turned into a mishmash of miscellaneous notes.

I eat a meal that I shared with my brother and I can hear him chewing,

And I try to make him laugh because I enjoyed it so much when I could make him choke with uncontrolled joy.

I see my sister when I see I see a grandmother smiling lovingly at small children running wildly in a yard,

Or swinging as high as they can on a swing set.

And I smile inside, and totally feel her presence.

My father speaks to me constantly.

We resemble each other in body type, voice tone, and choice of questionable vocabulary.

I can’t escape his image and I celebrate this.

If these are ghosts, they are friendly ghosts.

They can visit me as often as they’d like.