I spent most of my early life at funerals, though no one ever explained to me exactly why this was. It was as if, between the time I was three and the year I turned eleven, every member of my extended family agreed to bite the dust. And we are a numerous family. I remember being a little girl, playing hide-and-seek behind sable curtains and marble columns. There were never any other children in my family, none that I remember anyway. No, I played with ghosts. They were terribly skilled at hiding. Yes, my family was full of ghosts.
My grandfather always said I had a little piece of death tucked away someplace deep inside of me on account of how my parents had died the day I was born. This made sense to me somehow, like I was a little less alive than other people. That’s why I saw them. Ghosts, I mean.
On the subject of my grandfather, as this is his funeral we’re at today, he was the only family I’d ever had. He was a quiet sort of man, all drawn in on himself, as if to protect a wound no one could see, but he understood things. Most importantly, he understood me. No one else ever did. I’d like to be able to say we understood each other, but understanding my grandfather was impossible. He was an enigma. And now he’s gone and I’m trapped at his funeral, surrounded by people who haven’t known him for years. People who knew him even less than I did.
Suddenly, watching them all cry for the only other member of my sparse family, while my own eyes remain dry, becomes just too much. I jump down from my seat on the first pew and it is like hurling myself off a cliff. I feel the claw-like nails of my most insufferable aunt scratch at the lacy back of my dress as I take off up the aisle. Someone at the podium is droning on about how well he knew my grandfather, so I know my aunt won’t follow. She’ll scold me later, but I’m used to scolding. She never liked me, that one, said I was too smart for my age, too clever for my own good. “The Devil lives in that child!” she’d warn my grandfather. He never reacted more than to laugh when I told her it was death, not the Devil, who was inside me.
Outside, the harsh snow feels like a blessing. All I can see of the world is a sheet of white and, simply put, I don’t want to see anything else. The church is in the center of a city I have never visited, so I dare not wander. Instead, I sit on the icy step and think about how my grandfather once told me that, when he died, he didn’t want a service or any fuss, just for me to scatter his ashes in the most exotic place I could imagine. This will never happen. I tried to tell them that’s what he wanted, but none of the people inside that church would listen. They are adults and, where serious things like death are concerned, they believe they know best.
A cloud passes over the sun and the blinding landscape of the city morphs to a suffocating gray. The massive bell above the church tolls ominously. I shiver. “Won’t you come see?” a small voice behind me inquires. Startled, I spring to my feet in search of the voice’s owner. At first, I almost don’t see him. A boy, no older than me, standing in the snow a few paces to my left. “Come? Come where?” I demand, my voice wavering. “I will show you,” he says and takes a few steps down a path leading behind the church. When I don’t follow, he turns to me and offers a hand, “Don’t you want to see your grandfather?”
At the mention of my grandfather, images flash behind my eyes unbidden and unwelcome. I hear my grandfather’s yell and watch fire climb the walls of what was once my home, devouring my world. When the memory fades, I open my eyes to see the boy standing over me with his hand still extended. My gaze wanders behind him. No footprints, just as I thought. The easiest way to spot a ghost. I look up at him. His eyes glimmer, almost alive. The easiest way to know you can trust one. I take his hand and I follow. After all, one can hardly survive on borrowed time. Especially when one is alone.