For three years after Dad’s death, his ghost remained seated at the kitchen table, puzzling over why no one but me could see him; being just a little shit at the time, I didn’t have the verbal tools to explain — or to comfort. Of course, no one believed me, because “there are no such things as ghosts” — or so I’ve been told. Only Dad would have believed me if he were alive and could come to my defense. So, I identified his classification as a such thing — I separate the words now, but at the time, it was one word suchthing. It’s kinda funny how a child’s mind processes what they are told; it’s dreamlike, words have a visual substance to them — I tried to picture their meaning — at least, what I thought they meant in context with the feeling expressed by the speaker.

I knew Dad was dead—his body dead and buried, but as a suchthing, he was still there, only I could see him. I never really mourned losing him, because I hadn’t really lost him, just the part of him that I could touch. I guess you can imagine my Ma and siblings thinking I had gone off my rocker because I’d sit at the table directing conversation to the empty chair where Dad’s physical life ended and his metaphysical one began. After all, seeing is believing — if you can’t see it, you don’t believe it — I saw him — therefore, I believed.