Ghosts

I was on a mission:  Grab a soda and make it to choir practice on time.  A few days ago our director laid down the law about being late to rehearsals.  This time, surprisingly, it wasn't directed at me.  Punctuality has not always been my strongest trait, but it's something I've been working on because clients don't tend to hire you when you consistently show up late to appointments.  Imagine that.

As I made my way through the flow of my fellow grocery store patrons picking up last-minute supplies for the big game, an odd feeling washed over me.  Maybe my subconscious caught the profile of someone familiar in the crowd, just enough to spark the thought, "What if he's here?"

He.

The boy who rewrote my life those years ago.

The boy who never saw it through.

The boy who doesn't know that he shares that same aloof smile.

It makes me wonder if we've ever been in the same place at the same time, breathing the same air.  For my sanity, I pretend it's impossible.  The alternative is too much to consider.

What would I do, should he walk up to me one day, asking if I remembered him?  Catching up on lost time?  I imagine it would all shatter around my feet, that it's the best thing that never happened to me--this accidental encounter.  Mostly, I believe he is relieved to be free of me and the many shades of broken I was back then.

The smallest part of me insists that he must wonder.  That's the same shred of me that won't let me forget that I am forever bonded to someone who is practically a specter.  Once too alive in my world, he now drifts beyond my view.  I still feel his presence when the goosebumps raise on the back of my neck.  I still pray that today is not the day he chooses to breach the gap and make contact.

I do not know how to communicate with ghosts, and today was not the day I wished to learn.  All I wanted was a soda.