Ghost on the Water


The afternoon heat drove the conversations as well as the handheld fans. There’s nothing usual in the south about being covered in a layer of sweat. Watching the old folks wipe their faces with a handkerchief. There was never much room for pretentiousness when you’re down by the water. Heat and sweat are the great equalizers whenever you try that. 

Sitting in the old painted metal chairs, you found little shade under the white oaks. But there’s a slight breeze blowing off the water that smooth’s out the edges. This was our weekend getaway but getaway from what we hardly knew. From ’76 right up to recently, this was my refuge, my Shangri-La. The ghost of those Friday and Saturday afternoons still haunt me and still stir my soul. 

Today I don’t have any place to go. I’m too tired and set in my ways to sit outside very long. The sweat sticks to my back and drains the energy from my soul. So I sit by myself in this hot ass room, with two box fans and the NASCAR race filling the void. I ask nothing much of life anymore. I got married (few times), raised a family, and watched my larger than life frame fade away. 

So I ask myself is there anymore I can do? Are there no more friends or family to rescue? I thought I had so much potential, but fear and time took that away. I often give the “what if’s” in my life way too much of my attention. But for a chosen few that’s all we ever really had. So I watch these young boys spin around in a circle. Heading nowhere all for a little silver plated cup. And I wonder, should I go back and talk to the ghost on the water? Or tilt my head sideways and aim at a new mark. 

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