Phffft—

There’s a lot to contemplate over a pickle jar,

fridge door ajar,

wasting energy—

energy the EPA doesn’t really care about anymore—

in the quiet of my condo downtown.

It got me today.

It hasn’t in a while.

But somehow, standing over that open jar,

plunging my fork into pickle chips—

the good kind where the mustard seeds and dill fronds bob around as if to say, “I’m legit”—

It got me.

I felt it again blowing out the candles.

You know Martha—our current reigning queen—

says the classiest way to cue guests to hit the bricks is blowin' out candles.

I think it works.

It does wonders for me.

Phffft—out with the flame.

Watchin' the smoke swirl up toward the limited expanse of my white ceilings.

There’s just one thing—

I live here.

I can’t leave.

Long exhale there—

Figuring all this out has proven…

I don’t know—

My therapist would say, “Trey, you do know.”

And you know what?

Maybe she’s right.

I probably do.

I just don’t wanna face that one now.

Frankly, I don’t wanna face a lot of things.

The ghost that haunts the guestroom is one.

Oh yes.

My guestroom?

Haunted.

Fair warning should you ever stay here.

You won’t need your Ouija board though—

it’s a tethered specter.

It’s here for me.

The ghost that haunts?

Space.

The empty space of what once was.

The boys pointed it out last time they were here.

That’s how I know.

That’s when I connected the dots.

“Three, wasn’t there something here?” Carcar asked.

“Where,” I looked to where he pointed in front of the windows.

I knew of course

Of course I did.

But there’s this game we adults play hopin' they’ll drop it.

Hopin' their social cues have advanced far enough that we don’t have to dig further into the shit swept beneath the rug.

“Right there, Three. By the windows,” he motioned.

“Yeah, right there,” Nono echoed.

“Ah,” I caved. “That’s where the boy’s desk was.”

No one knows that void better than me.

But you know?

It’s not really him I miss.

It’s the trajectory.

It’s the path my life was on.

That’s what I miss.

I miss the space of another person.

I miss the presence of someone else here.

I miss the feeling of, “you’re chosen and you matter.”

Now—

Well, there’s candles to blow out.

And a pile of dishes from the shrimp and grits I made for momma and daddy, and M and A.

There’s my bed to make.

And there’s the dishwasher runnin'.

The lights need to be turned off on the balcony.

And the fountain unplugged.

There’s teeth to brush,

and floss to thread,

and the hum of the towels in the dryer.

And—

there’s the ghost.

But there’s also Kygo—

“Thought I was losssst, but then I woke up in love.”

And there’s the cocoon of clean sheets.

And there’s the blood orange gin and tonic I’m sippin'—

the pop and fizz of deep orange, almost red citrus.

And there’s the clicking keys of my laptop.

And the smell of my Huntington Beach candle.

There’s the flame dancing on the wick.

There’s the kettle ready to pipe steam in the mornin' for my tea.

And there’s the knowledge that we’re doing this.

Me.

The versions of me.

We’re truckin’ on.

Me, alone—

and brave(ish),

and with the ghost.