Tea Time with Ghosts
And when you return to the place you died,
you expect ghosts, perhaps even your own,
dark glowering spirits,with cold eyes
reminding you of every enmity and failure,
of the things that slowly laid you to rest
rising from the very ground to remind you
of when and where you fell from grace.
There are ghosts aplenty when you arrive,
busily having tea with bourbon in their china cups,
wearing red hats like some spiritual woman’s club
and laughing at the folly of believing
in a past that does not exist.
if indeed, it ever did.
And so you dine with them, get fitted for a red hat,
and dance through the night, blissfully aware
not all hauntings are dark.
About this poem.
I went down to Virginia this weekend, taking my son down to the prom of his old high school in Botetourt.
There was a time, years ago, where making that trip always brought a certain amount of sadness. I had a lot of wonderful things in Virginia, and I had some terrible, crippling loss there too. This trip though, there was no sadness. I met with dear friends for dinner, and another couple for lunch. I visited my old church. I took an artist’s date. I got to celebrate pre-prom with my son and his friends. The whole weekend was full of joy, connection and looking not behind, but ahead.