My father spoke to ghosts as easily as people, and said so. Nobody thought this a crazy notion, since it came from him. Once I heard him mention a conversation he’d had that morning with his grandfather, retell the joke he had heard. The fact that his grandfather had dropped dead on the golf course on an April day in 1927 was neither here nor there. The joke was a good one. Timeless, like its teller.
Now he too is gone, gone to join the ghosts to which he spoke so easily.
I did not inherit his full facility with ghosts, only a touch of it. I can feel him and know he is there, but he is mute. It is as though we swim together in the sea, masks and snorkels and fins. I can neither speak nor hear as I float through this world, its currents wafting hot and cold, up and down, the only sound my own stertorous breathing and the rush of pulse in my ears.
I see him there, floating in eddies of his own. He signals me, his lips moving.
My utmost wish is to hear.
For my father, who would have turned eighty today.