Walking With the Dead

I was ten when my granny died and I realized two things: 1) Some who walk among us are dead. And 2) Only I, at least in my town, can see them. It’s been fifty-five years since these revelations. I was scared at the beginning. That’s more than a ten-year-old should have to process, especially on his own. But after repeated daily encounters, the terror wore off. Fear turned to nonchalance. They became camouflaged, indistinguishable from the routine landscape, not warranting any attention. Now they’re visual white noise, part of a mundane backdrop.

A lot has changed, as is expected when decades slip by and you mature. I’m concerned because the dead walking among us now outnumber the living. I wonder if I should care that this ratio is disproportionate.

Both groups mill around the same venue during big gatherings for important events. But the crowds of living pale when compared to the dead. I have learned to feign agreement when reminiscing about how things use to be and who is no longer here. I simply nod when someone mentions that the So-and-sos would have loved this party, even though I can clearly see Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so standing behind the person talking. The decedent couple seem indifferent while the living are certain they’d enjoy being here.

Usually, the dead congregate in the boarded-up buildings lining the once bustling streets of downtown. I don’t try going in to see what they’re doing as I’ve never had an invitation extended. I give them their space and am grateful I can’t hear any wailing or screams which may or may not be emanating from the structures. Ever since the time I started seeing the dead, I haven’t been able to talk with or hear them. They’ve offered no reply when I’d ask them questions. Even granny. I’d wave or nod in passing, but nothing was reciprocated.

As a child, this was frustrating. I didn’t understand why I could see them but they wouldn’t acknowledge my attempts to fraternize. Then I turned it into a game. I’d try to find elaborate ways to be annoying in hopes of getting a ghostly response without looking like a crazy, wildly gesticulating person in front of the other breathing souls out in public. There’s a fine line between thinking you’re crazy for seeing dead people and acting crazy to be seen by dead people.

Maybe I should pack up and leave. My kids are grown with families of their own. I should move closer to them. This town seems like it’s dying and I think I still have a lot of life in me.