This is a story about a family and, as there is a ghost involved, you might call it a ghost story. But every family is a ghost story. The dead sit at our tables long after they have gone.
But ask yourself this: Have you ever lost someone you love and wanted one more conversation, one more chance to make up for the time when you thought they would be here forever?
When you are rotten about yourself, you become rotten to everyone else, even those you love.
What is it about childhood that never lets you go, even when you’re so wrecked it’s hard to believe you ever were a child?
My mother was French Protestant, and my father was Italian Catholic, and their union was an excess of God, guilt, and sauce.
They were a blend of backgrounds and cultures, but if my family was democracy, my father’s vote counted twice.
Of course, when you are that young, you nest in your parent’s plans, not your own.
I think what you notice most when you haven’t been home in a while is how much the trees have grown around your memories.
So now I was eating a past-tense breakfast at a past-tense table with a past-tense mother.
Small towns are like metronomes; with the slightest flick, the beat changes.
I am not sure which bothered me more, being the son of this new word, or no longer being the son of the old ones.
“Trees spend all day looking up at God.”
A big chunk of our history had been buried with my mother. You should never let your past disappear that way.
And in that mixing of words and athletics, I realised how your mother and father pass through you to your children, like it or not.
I lost both parents on the same day, one to shame, one to shadow.
The room shrunk to a heat behind my eyes.
Sharing tales of those we’ve lost is how we keep from really losing them.