Immediately upon waking, I was already feeling frazzled. I had a lunch date with former students at noon, and I wanted to have breakfast and work out before getting ready. The workout didn't happen. Not before lunch anyway. After breakfast, I surfed the interwebs for a little while, then resolutely went upstairs to pretty myself up before heading to Ghent for lunch.
Ghent is one of my favorite neighborhoods on this earth. It feels like a small, artsy town in the middle of a big city. If you live in Ghent, you can easily walk to the grocery store, any number of eclectic restaurants, Starbucks, or Naro Expanded Cinema, a local video store that has everything on DVD. There are trees and charming, old apartment buildings as far as the eye can see. The best thing in the world is in the spring and fall when it begins to warm up or cool down outside and you can open the windows to the fresh air and sounds of feet running on the pavement below. I love this place. A couple of years ago I was chased out unceremoniously.
I met Paul and Becca at Nazef, a Mediterranean restaurant and hookah lounge. I ordered a Greek salad, Becca had tzakiki with pita wedges, and Paul requested a hookah. Sierra Mist in the base. Cherry limeade shisha. Good times. We chatted, ate, and smoked, and I tried not to think about living in Ghent and owning my own hookah. But the ghosts do as they will, and I was thrown periodically into a melancholy reverie about days long gone. At the end of two hours, I hugged my friends goodbye, thanking them for treating me to a lovely time, and began the return trip through Ghent and back home.
The route I chose carried me close by one of the apartments I lived in. The last apartment I lived in. I thought of my walks "into town" (which is what we called it when we went a few blocks up to Colley Avenue) and gazed at the circle where I used to park when all of the spots in front of the bulding were taken. I could literally feel and smell the breeze that used to waft into the third-floor apartment and make me feel like life was truly beautiful. Waves of nostalgia and sorrow swept over me and still haven't completely receded.
The ghosts stayed with me for the rest of the night. Dinner, cooked after the
last workout of the week, provided a morsel of relief. Chinese meatballs over couscous with bok choy. The bok choy alone wasn't stellar, but eaten with everything else it provided just the right amount of tender crispness with the flavorful meatballs and rich, sweet and tangy sauce. This was definitely a do-again meal.After dinner, I had my first shift of pet duty. Steve's parents and my parents all left for lengthy vacations, and we're in charge of the animals while they're gone. Steve goes twice a day to visit, feed, and walk Zack, the German Shepherd. I go twice a day to visit, feed, and scoop litter boxes for Hadley, Soldier, and Trooper. Hadley greeted me at the door, and I wondered if she could see the ghosts that were latched firmly to my shoulders. I suspected not. She was too hungry to care about much else. I mentally checked off my list of duties, thinking about the kitties that I had once loved and lost when I had to leave Ghent. Nearly an hour later, babies fed and tucked in for the night, I got in the car to return home, ghosts in tow.
The rest of night was uneventful. Just me, Steve, and my ghosts. There are many times when they fly away for days and weeks at a time, offering me the chance to heal a bit more and steel myself for their return. I realize more and more that grief and joy are inextricably intertwined, and that my ghosts pull me in more closely to the pulse of humanity. In a strange way, I'm grateful for the pain that I live with because it reminds me of my responsibility to be a kind, loving, forgiving person. I figure if I can fulfill that responsibility, then mine will not be a wasted life.
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