Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past.
Ghost stories never held much fascination for me. Stories of spirits held to this world by some traumatic event, reaching out for the living with a cold hand, not allowed to move to the next world, never sounded that frightening.
Maybe it was all just too familiar.
As an adoptee I have often felt that I was living a life un-natural, a life not meant to be. These feelings intensified when I found my birth family. To some of them I was a secret kept safe in the hallowed quiets of the past, to others I was, and may remain, only a thing that might exist, something best not thought of. To all very much like a ghost.
I am a thing not seen, but out there somewhere. Something different and not of their world. To those who only suspect my existence, I could be a interesting thing to ponder, a mystery never to be solved, nothing with a real material presence in their world.
But I can see them. I cannot speak to them. I am held back by a veil of concocted reality, a thing created to forever keep me from their world and they from mine. The ether thins and I get a glimpse, but I cannot know if they look back at me. If they can feel me there, if I am a cold suddenly come over on a warm day, a door slamming in an empty room, a voice from nowhere calling their name, I do not know.
I am a ghost in their world.