The ghosts drift down the cliffs under cover of mist and sea-spray. The deep basso of foghorn a warning. My dog runs, uncaring, over sand and rocks, splashing through waves. When the ChuckIt flies, he is swallowed by wet cloud drifts blown against the headland. When he reappears, carrying the neon orange toy, his tail happily disperses the ghosts.
He is unbothered by them, but I don’t like the way they cling to my ears. They whisper and leave cold trails of moisture that tickle before dripping from my earlobes. I see what the ghosts show as my glasses fog up, obscuring the shore. Instead of tracking the dog and avoiding rocky outcroppings, my lenses fill with images of lives past, long dead. I carry my father’s old fashioned kerchief to wipe away the history of this place.
Even when I can see again, the ghosts try to keep me, insubstantial barbed wire, wrapping from exposed knees to Teva tanned feet. Still, he’s an active dog, he needs to run, so I tread the beach. A trick I’ve learned is that wading keeps them at bay. The ghosts avoid crashing waves that melt their foggy spirits.
Sometimes there are so many ghosts that I return, weighed down from what should be a relaxing beach walk. Thickly coalescing ghosts deposit a residue of lives, words, faces, places and feelings. I can dry us off, the dog and me, but where the ghosts have caressed my skin, the goosebumps of knowing remain.
The friends and surfers and joggers and natives of my neighborhood never mention the ghosts. Still, I come home covered in unnatural information. If there are no ghosts, where are the stories coming from?
What do you think?