I’m trying to figure out how to write my ghost story. It’s my solace, it’s what I cling to, it’s the closest thing that I have to proof – proof! as if there could be such a thing – that the love and the light that was my father did not just snuff out, did not just disappear absolutely, when he died. So I want to write it. I promised myself that I would, when I got the courage. And you all have given me the courage, with your stories and your reflections and your all-around awesome.
But I’m tired, and writing the story is hard – each tap of my fingers on the keyboard is a tap on my heart and although I tap gently, still, the tapping wears and the words exhaust me – and I just want to think about snowflakes and ice castles and ice dancers and all things light and sparkly and melty. And then have cocoa. Spiked with espresso.
Today, I might do just that.