Do You Remember, Dear?

‘Humans, spirits and ghosts exist on a spectrum. If humans are the embodiment of life, then ghosts are death incarnate. They are fragments, disembodied voices, always wailing but never heard. They cling to this world, desperate to stay. They say that this is where spirits come in - beings designed to bring peace. But that is a misconception. Spirits have varied purposes. Whilst some do indeed help ghosts with their departure, there are others who cannot see ghosts at all. Instead, they help humans with their troubles, whatever they might be. Rumour has it there are some spirits who see all beings on the spectrum, but that is all it is - a rumour. One knows where they might find such a creature, but whether they exist is something only the seeker will discover. I would imagine that if someone had confirmed the existence of such spirits, they would have been sworn to secrecy.’ - The Supernatural Spectrum

*

Do you remember, dear, the autumn? We would read about humans and spirits and ghosts, letting our imagination run wild as we played make-believe. We’d pretend we were spirit detectives, solving cases involving beings of all kinds. 

Together, we explored the outside world. You were always dressed in so many layers it was a wonder you moved as freely as you did, and I - I was dressed considerably lighter, so that you always tried to offload a scarf, or a hat, or a mitten on me (never mind that I didn’t need them). Do you remember how we would go down to that neglected park and play, play until we could no longer, and even then linger? Because we would linger, linger as though we had some vain hope that if we did so, this moment would stretch on forever. We were only children then; we didn’t know any better.

But still, I should have. Even so, I look back on that time fondly. It was the autumn of our childhood.

*

I remember. Of course I do. There was never a day, back then, when I didn’t try to shed something, be it glove or snood. I don’t know how you put up with me, or why. I treated you as my own personal hatstand, and yet you would always look at me with this soft smile, with this affectionate gleam in your eyes. It would always astound me - the way you looked so mature in those moments. 

It made me bitter. It made me jealous. I was high strung, tightly wound, a ball of frustration, of hatred, of wrath. Restrictions bound me; rules suffocated me. Disappointment clung to me; its weight more burdensome than any coat I was stuffed in. My parents would look at me and hope there was someone else standing in my place. Someone normal. I thought you’d understand, considering - but being different never seemed to bother you, back then. 

I wish it still didn’t. 

We may not have been the same as the other children, but we had each other. It’s as clear to me now as it was unclear to me then. I suppose it’s easy to see with the advantage of time. Nostalgia means viewing the past through rose tinted glasses. It means an autumn that is fuzzy and bright and warm.

*

Do you remember, dear, the winter? As a child you could not brave the land outside this time of year, so susceptible were you to the cold. But as the seasons changed, you grew stronger. As teenagers we were able to do all the things you missed out on. We made snowmen (at one point, we made so many that we ran out of carrots, and that rogue one with a satsuma for a nose was always my favourite). We threw snowballs at each other (I never told you this, but I always let you win our fights). We made snow angels (not that you needed to do that to look more angelic). 

I was always happiest when I was with you. I think you felt the same. Even so, I could not help but feel the pang of guilt that came every time your eyes wandered over to what the other children were doing. 

My mother had warned me, of course, that it would hurt to befriend a human. For you, as well as me. She worried so much whenever we were together; I could see it in her eyes. Even then, if I had the chance to go back, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d go through ten times more pain if it meant I would get to spend another hour with you. 

I sound like a masochist, don’t I? I cannot help it. That was the winter of our youth, and the mere thought of it warms me to the core.

*

I remember, Spirit. That nickname went through many stages: at first, a remark to test the waters; next, a bitter attempt at winding you up; later, a plea for you to get upset, angry, anything to stop the adoration I didn’t deserve; afterwards, a teasing quip; eventually, a term of endearment. Whenever I used it, you would smile, oh-so-radiantly, and I would be blinded, even when the days were dull and grey. Your smile summoned dimples and stomach flutters; made your eyes crinkle and my heart go pitter-patter.

I think it must have been amidst the snow, in our late teenage years, when you won me over. I’d spent so long trying to push you away - both your mother and I had been hoping you’d come to your senses, see that you could do so much better. I used mean words and cruel actions, while she tried to reason with worried glances and concerned questions. It was only then, when the leaves drooped and died, that we both realised it was futile. 

I let myself enjoy our time together. Though I hated myself for keeping you near, I thought - foolishly, perhaps - that the loathing would diminish with time. More and more opportunities had opened up to me amid that blank expanse, and I truly believed life would change. Winter stretched out before us, vast and endless, and made me feel as though I might be magical, too.

*

Do you remember, dear, the spring? I hated the responsibilities that kept us apart - human work for you; spirit obligations for me. Before, I could wander around freely with you. It was my mother’s passing that marked the start of our duties, and I found myself now tethered to the temple, having taken her position. Try as I might, I could not leave the grounds, and though I took great care to sit as far away as I could, it was never enough. Thereʼs a horrible irony in being a spirit. I can fly, an action that screams freedom. Yet here I am, withering away, for what use is flying when I cannot use it to reach you?

I remember venting these frustrations to you, on one of your rare visits. You agreed, and when I zipped around the temple to further iterate my point, your expression was pained.

‘It’s so cruel of them,’ you said, ‘to give you this power.’ 

You were right. It was a constant reminder that I had no control over my life. It felt like a sick joke, and I hated to think about those in charge snickering over our misfortune. 

For although there was no barrier keeping you trapped in one area, I got the sense you were just as chained to your workplace as I was to mine. I have no first hand experience of how taxing the human world can be, but the dark circles under your eyes and constant yawning were more than enough to give me an impression of the exhaustion that had settled deep within your bones. Draining though they were, those long periods where we found ourselves apart led inevitably to our reunions, my sole source of comfort. They were always tinged with desperation, because I knew just as soon as you had appeared, you would vanish, and it would feel as though I had imagined that brief instance of joy, as if my misery had continued uninterrupted. 

I try not to think about that time too much. But at night, when I cannot sleep, the spring of our adult lives dominates my mind.

*

I remember, Spirit, and the memories leave behind a sour taste. Memories are all I have now, yet I cannot block out the painful ones. Even when I try to hold onto amber hues and beige blankets, nature intervenes. Blooming flowers dominate my vision, petals burying what little happiness I’m able to glean.

The energy I had gained in youth was zapped from me. Work was monotonous, and I quickly became accustomed to the dull drudgery of day-to-day life. I felt pathetic being this exhausted, when everyone around me seemed to function despite sharing the same workload. Whenever my parents looked at me I’d be transported back to red leaves and jack-o’-lanterns. I was still that same weak child. So, I took on more and more tasks, busied myself with projects, desperate to feel I was worthy of you. Yet every step I took to get closer to being the person you deserved, the more the time I spent with you seemed like a dream. A far away fantasy: unreachable, unattainable. 

You had no way of knowing how I felt. I wish I could explain it to you - even if now is far too late. I see you walking from one room to the next, asking me questions but never receiving answers. What use is a voice that can’t be heard? 

I fear I bloomed too early, blossoming in winter only to wilt in spring.

*

Do you remember, dear, the summer? Relationships between spirits and humans are always frowned upon, for they never work out. We were infused with rebelliousness, and never paid heed to disapproving glances, or the gentle reprimanding of our parents. 

Perhaps we should have done. For I was always blinded by bliss when with you, and never noticed how lonely you were. It was even harder when I could not visit you like I did when we were young, instead relying solely on your schedule for my happiness. 

I suppose I should thank you, or be grateful, that you chose to end your life in my temple. I don’t know what I would have done if I wasn’t able to visit the place you last spoke, last breathed, last lived. You must have known I would not be able to visit your grave. You were thoughtful - even in your last moments when you were ripping out my heart and tearing it to shreds - you were thoughtful. 

Summer will forever be stained, now. Every time a golden ray lights up the corner of the room, I see it illuminate that creaky floorboard. Through tears I can still see the glimmer of rubies. Your presence lives on, seeping into my domain as it abandoned yours. 

Wherever I go, I swear I can feel you. It is perpetually summer here, even when the days grow cold and dark, even when the trees grow bare, the ground barren and smothered by snow. You’re both here and not. Life will remain unchanged now.

I’m stuck in the summer of our demise. 

* 

I remember, dear Spirit. As children, we were always reading about ghosts and spirits and humans, pretending we were spirit detectives who could, and would, help anyone in need. I suppose I was always destined to become a ghost. But a part of me had hoped that I would become like you - that our childhood fantasy would become an adult reality. 

Of course, I soon learned that not even you could access that faraway dream. I should’ve known it would be impossible. And yet...clearly, being human wasn’t working out for me. I deluded myself into thinking that you would be able to see me as a ghost, and far more frequently at that, than if I had been human. I can’t deny I also held the slightest hope that maybe, just maybe, I would become a spirit too.

But I’m invisible to you. Sometimes, you wander around, ending up at the spot where I - it feels as though you can sense that I’m here. I try to call out to you, but my pleas remain unheard. I am sunlight streaming through an open window, succeeding only in highlighting a room’s emptiness. 

I thought I would brighten up your temple with the full force of summer. The heat is unbearable, and our misery never-ending.