Ghosts - Terry Ehret

[Larry Robinson]

Ghosts

Once when my girls were small 
and we were decorating the porch with cobwebs 
and jack-o-lanterns, they asked about the altar I had set up inside— 
the photos of their grandfathers and aunts and uncles, 
the tea-lights, the Virgin of Guadalupe on a tall glass jar. 

“This time of year,” I say, “the veil is thin between the worlds. 
Sometimes those who’ve passed can come back to visit. 
So we make them welcome.”

“Like ghosts?” they ask as we hang two 
sheet-draped Styrofoam balls from the corners 
of the front porch eaves. 
“Yes, we can call them ghosts.” 

Next morning, the first frost of the season 
ices our neighborhood roofs and the hills beyond. 
My girls pull on their jackets and head to school, 
their breath before them in small puffs. 

“Look,” one of them says, “we’re making ghosts!”
 And another, “Are there ghosts inside us?”
And the third, “Let’s walk our ghosts to school.” 

I think about that long ago autumn morning, 
the photos on the altar multiplying each year, 
and wonder whose ghosts I carry inside, 
who is walking with me, even now.

   - Terry Ehret


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