A tiny wire fence in front of the graveyard, to keep them out or to keep them in? Ghosts don’t mind the snow. The cold doesn’t bother them. After the initial shock and cold of dying, they adjust rather well, and it’s probably a relief to not always have to seek some form of warmth and shelter. In fact, the last thing they remember about being alive is feeling very cold. So it might be something they actively seek out since they find themselves no longer requiring warmth. They seek the cold, the last human feeling, but there is more to this thing called life than being and feeling human.
Never are ghosts more noticeable or plentiful than in the winter, when their headstones loom gray and black and crumbly out of the pure, fluffy, soft, white snow. There’s no greenery around them now, nothing to hide in, nothing to get lost in, nothing to ease the reality of burial. Just stark cold headstones that yell at the passerby, “I am here! I am here!” And the passerby turns his head away as soon as his eyes find the headstones marring the white snowy field, which is now no longer pleasing to him. He averts his eyes because each headstone stands out in stark relief, each one demanding to be counted and seen, each one a reminder.
I am here. I never left. I am as cold as snow now. I am as hard as rock. But I am here, and I am waiting for you. Time is on my side, passerby, and I can wait a very long time.
|The headstones in their favorite environment.|