Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Ghost in the Machine
I wish I could talk to ghosts. Wow, that's random, huh? I never even entertained the idea of ghosts until I had an urgent need to talk to someone that was no longer here in the physical sense. The night of my mother's funeral, I sat alone in the dark with my glass of wine watching "John Edward's Cross Country" and believing. For those of you uneducated in afterlife communicators, John is a wannabe goomba who bullies his audience members with vague references and makes them believe he's got Grandma on the line. Hell, I bought it.
I love to think that our dear, departed loved ones are watching us, guarding us, sitting behind me and smiling. Well, the exception would be when I sweep that dust bunny back under the couch, or encourage my kids to eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast because I'm tired. It comforts me on a bad day, though. Wouldn't it be nice to know for sure that our dead relatives never really leave us? They are here, sending subtle messages to keep us on our toes.
So I'm obsessed with it. (I have such a knack for unhealthy obsessions...it's a gift, really.) I watch every reality ghost show that digital cable has to offer. I know the difference between a residual haunting and an intelligent haunting. I see that orb and raise you an EVP (electronic voice print...you had to ask?) I know that ouija boards are bad news and ghost hunters are full of themselves.
I absolutely revel in the idea that my mom is still hanging around the house. It's no secret that when I see that dark shadow out of the corner of my eye, I smile a little knowing smile. When I hear footfalls on the stairs, I don't get scared. I just think, "She's still taking her own sweet time."
I'm anxiously awaiting the day that I walk into the house after work and her crock pot mac and cheese - that gooey, fattening ambrosia - is waiting for us to enjoy. Thanks, Mama, and do you mind cleaning the toilets while you're at it?