How to Make a Ghost

Take his favorite record. Not the one he got last week that he has been listening to on repeat, nor the one that always skips five minutes and thirty-three seconds in because it is old and scratched and loved. Take the dustiest, crispest one from its untouched plastic slipcover, smell its lack of mildew, notice the absence of fingerprints on its flawless vinyl surface. Cover it with your fingers, breathe clouds of hot air, spit, lick its ridges. It is yours now, no need to be gentle.

Protect it. Hold it to your chest like a shield, like a suit of armor, you are Joan of Arc and he is the fire licking at your heels, but you can still run. So run. Go to all the places you’ve walked together, sat together, stared down at the ground and poked at the dirt together. From each place take a small rock. Clench them all in one fist, feel how they strike each other. Do not interrupt, it is impolite to interrupt, let them bicker and wail, you will be home soon.

When you arrive, put your record on. Remember that it is your record now, it is yours and ghosts have no interest in records. Light a candle, a tall candle, one that will burn for a long long time, and around it place your sweaty stones and a bit of amethyst you keep in your pocket. Remember that amethyst has healing properties, it helps with grief, it will help you now. You will not grieve, for you have lost nothing. Remember that. This is a time to remember it all, every conversation, every glance, every almost, every never. Write them down, spell it out. Write what you wanted to say the night he refused to look you in the eye. Write down everything he will never understand, everything you will never know.

Burn it all in the candle’s faltering fire. Hold it close, let the flames kiss your hand if you must, be certain only ashes remain and let them settle amongst the stones. It is over it is done. When the music goes quiet and the world finally feels still, extinguish the flame. Watch as the smoke rises, imagine it is a ghost and listen when it whispers to you. You have not taken a life, always remember, you have created a ghost.

This is not the end: he will appear in line at the grocery store, ordering coffee, walking across the street. Remind yourself that he cannot see you, he is a ghost, he is not here, he is at peace. Remember and be at peace.

By Brooks Eisenbise

*WTF is proud to announce this poem was part of a collection that won the the Roy W. Cowden Fellowship for the Hopwood Writing Awards.