I Love My Ghosts

You’re not awkward! You just haven’t found your people yet.

Yve Spengler

I widen my step to keep in pace with my best friend's fast feet. The moon illuminates every stone in the sparkling sidewalk as she and I rapidly pass by, and, despite the cold air I am filled with a warmth that comes when your soul feels safe in the hands of another. Silently, we stop to gaze at the Mississippi River’s currents that run beneath the Lowry Avenue Bridge. The cars roar past us, picking up gusts of wind that tickle the hairs on our necks. 

As I catch my breath, I hear the click of a phantom lighter coming from somewhere deep inside, its bitter smoke lingering in my lungs with each exhale. Below us, the streaming water picks up the hazy, teal-colored light from the bridge in a whirl like spilled paint, the streetlights adding to the chaos with orange splotches, reminiscent of a Vincent Van Gough painting. The beauty of it all momentarily leaves me voiceless until her calm voice asks me,  “Do you know why the bridge is lit up?”

“No,  I don’t know,” I respond.

I knew that at that moment that I was not the only one witnessing the inexplicable sight of the river. I knew over the course of that day, other groups of college friends, old couples, or siblings made memories here, some of them inerasable. I knew this magic was not only happening tonight but had been taking place over years.

She explained the bridge’s history, and it dawned on me that this spot was not only a living memory for us and for others—we stood amongst ghosts. I wonder if these ghosts ever feel awkward in our world, the way we sometimes do. Do they stumble with their hands reaching out for a connection? Does the lack of acknowledgment on our part make them want to confine themselves into lesser versions of themselves? Do they feel out of place in a world where no one takes the time to see them?

Don’t we often catch ourselves feeling small around others? There is an inability to let loose in another's presence, especially after having said or done something that made them turn away from us. It’s common for us to feel like we’re “too much” in a world that is host to so many different narratives, especially if our voice is among the quieter ones. 

I glance at the side profile of my friend, her bangs are lifting in the wind. I admire how unafraid she is to be her honest self. Before meeting her, I learned that making friends meant homogenizing myself to them. It became ingrained in me to fit myself into the perceived notions of what I thought others wanted. I constantly wanted to escape into the walls of whatever room I was in, and I know I’m not alone in this feeling. 

“We could not be more different from each other,” she says, taking me by surprise. But as I focus on the soft glow of her eyes, I register that somehow, our contrasting flames are what drew us together. We are like a painter and her brush, each stroke advancing the artwork to a closer state of completion. I marvel at how I am always at home with her despite how much of myself I have exposed. I don’t have to think about how I hold myself around her, I am free to dance with my rhythmless body, knowing at the end of the song our laughter will mingle together. 

Among the right people, you’ll find yourself singing. Your voice adds more to the conversation when you stop trying to say what everyone has already said. Rather than trying to see if your pieces fit others’, dig into the core of your being by asking what you really think or feel. Feel the fire of originality re-spark from within. 

Under the fading skyline of a crisp night, the light of your fire may even attract some ghosts. They’ll ask, “Wanna share a light?” Surrounded by a sense of belonging, the puffs of your combined smoke will wander to meet the reflection of dancing stars in the waves.