Sometimes I talk to the dead.
I lay in her bed, and get my shoes dirty from playing with her sheets. I bring her trinkets, hoping they will amount to more than forgotten trash weathered by the morning mist. I water her flowers just in case she can actually smell them. You know, just in case.
When I’m feeling optimistic, I hear her in the wind that sends the pinwheels spinning. I see her smiling in the sun that brings color to my face. And I feel her in the rain that tickles my eyelashes.
I tell her my secrets. I tell her my fears. I tell her about the sadness in my soul. I tell her I miss her, and wonder how things would be different if she were still here. I ask her how she is, what she’s been doing, and if she’s seen Paul Walker yet. We reminisce about the good times we’ve had, and the good times we should’ve had. I ask her for strength, and remind her to visit her husband. I thank her for being such a good friend and say, “See you later!” when I go.
I wonder why I talk to the dead. When no one responds, and I feel so alone. When it makes me cry, and I leave more sad than when I arrived. Then I realized.
I talk to the dead, because it keeps her alive.