Small Town Ghost Movie Reel
We followed a trail of embers at night across the highway, through the soy bean field back into town.
You said, “Sometimes when I lock my knees for too long I get chills. I feel like a ghost.”
You said, “The path they left here isn’t meant for us. It’s for our grandparents. Or our grandchildren.”
You said, “Be nicer.”
Out here, nowhere, there are muscles beneath the land. And the earth flexes and we struggle together to stand upright, while we take some time to get a feel for things. I assume a role — say I’m a bank teller. And you assume a role — say you work at the post office. Everyone else is a stranger.
***
It’s 3 weeks until the election and we’re at a town hall forum. I tell the mayor, “You’ve got to do something about these potholes. I’ve written letter after letter. It’s awful on my Chevy.”
The mayor says, “I’ll have to raise taxes.”
I tell him, “I don’t care about big government and all that. Make the government as big as the sun for all I care. I just want you to fix the potholes. I can’t afford another flat. My wife here,” I gesture to you but you’re already gone, “My wife works down at the post office. You know her. Sometimes she reads the letters. She knows she’s not supposed to, but she can’t help it. She gets curious. She read a letter once from a widow professing her love for a married man. I won’t say who. Some of you in this room know him. He does real estate. See, this kind of thing breaks my heart.”
***
There’s just us and a few others at the matinee. We took a chance on a movie we knew nothing about going into it. The projectionist — some high school kid — is having a hell of a time. First the film is out of focus. Then it jumps off the screen and onto the floor.
I say, “See this is the kind of thing I’m talking about.”
I get up and walk to the front of the theater, until I’m standing on the movie. I’m soaring across a lush, green landscape, then the mountains, then the ocean.
I holler up to you, “Hey this is how our ancestors got here!”
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths and think to myself, “This counts. I’m always alone when it counts. I could travel anywhere this way, if I focus real hard, and I don’t doubt myself too much. All of this counts.”
***
On our porch, under a full moon, I tell you, “I had a dream last night I was a detective and I was investigating a crime scene, and there was a lot of blood but there was no body, and I had to figure out if the blood was real or not. Or if the murder had been staged.”
You’re looking out at an apple orchard and in this orchard there are souls gathered in the trees looking back at us. You assume a role — say your soul is an antique table covered in polaroids. And I assume a role — say my soul is a knocked over bucket of honey spilling out across a hot sidewalk. When I long for your soul I tremble and my vision comes and goes. When I long for your soul I walk deep into the orchard and climb a tree and just stay up there for hours.
You say, “Someone told me today they’re doing human sacrifices down in Florida.”
I say, “They should fire every politician and start over.”
You say, “It’s so wicked what people do to each other.”
You say, “I heard the bodies don’t decompose after they bury them.”
***
We’re in our garage getting ready. Outside there’s a crowd of townspeople waiting to say goodbye. Beyond the crowd there’s a trail of embers that will lead us somewhere else. You put the last box in the Chevy and open the garage door. I think your soul is a tree that never stops growing even long after it’s left our atmosphere. As we’re pulling out I begin to speak to you, but then I forget what I was going to say.
