on ghosts and spirits

This morning the freeway was completely shut down, and we were shuttled off and then back on. In passing, there was a small, snub-nosed truck bashed in and a semi-trailer askew in the road. Glass was shattered, and there might’ve been blood. We craned and craned our necks to see.

The other day, I waited in the front room of someone’s house, in the eerie morning calm, a woman’s voice came from somewhere in the most lovely, high Om. “She’s singing,” I thought. Later, we heard it again together, and she had not heard it before, and she had not been singing.

Once, my dying refrigerator let out a sigh so endearing, so piteous, so surprised to find itself in that kind of pain, that I quickly fell into a kind of mother’s love. When the motor moaned it’s last, sick “Ohhhh,” I placed my hand on it’s freezer and said goodbye.

In a windowless room, my lips dry, I stand at the threshold between this world and whatever red, watery one slowly emerged before it. Each baby is barely a thing, and suddenly you start seeing spirits everywhere.

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