Haunted (fiction)

She comes to me in this place.  On cold, gray days when the stone seems to absorb the heat of a touch she comes to sit next to me.  Even though I long for the touch, her hands are cold.  Her body pressed next to me on the stone bench provides only a chill.  But my heart leaps with boundless joy.  She's come back to me.  She's come back. 

I can almost make out her outline, but she disappears when I look right at her.  At the edge of my vision I can make out indistinct outlines of red curls and blue eyes.  Her body is silhouetted in something white and flowing.  She looks at me.  She always looks at me.  In her presence I remember everything so clearly.  I become an old man laughing at nothing—muttering replies to unspoken questions.  I don’t care.

The wind blows making my eyes tear.  Though the blurred tears she almost comes in to focus and I can see her face, but only for a moment and she’s gone again.  Her touch seems to ignore the many layers of warm clothing I always wear when I visit.  She waits so long to show.  My joints ache and my heat is nearly drained away as if my very life is needed to summon her.  Sometimes she doesn’t come.  When the sun sinks below the trees I can’t stay any longer.  It’s a struggle to stand—to stagger back to the world of the living.  Crying from the wind or remorse or the pain… or the loss.

Her presence never wavers when she does come.  We talk in our way until the sun sets.  I try to stay longer, but I’m too weak.  I can’t stand the painful cold.  I think she understands.  When I stand to go she remains sitting.  She watches me as I walk away.  Even as I leave the cemetery behind I can see her sitting there.  I always leave behind the flowers I bring.  They are always gone when I return.

I know she wants me to stay.  I know someday I will.