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memories, ghosts, dreams 115 Ghost of Prescott Park Barbara Bald I saw you in the park today, walking amid tourists enjoying ocean breezes, apple blossoms raining scented petals. From a distance I knew it was you: smoke-colored canvas coat, faded blue jeans, tan leather work boots splotched with paint, salt-and-pepper hair that never obeyed a brush. You walked, paced, retraced aimless steps, round the docks and back again, round the docks, back again. It was your form that gave you away, eyes to the ground, shoulders drooped from demons you carried in your pockets, cuffs too long from Jack Daniels tugging at your sleeves. My eyes followed every step, watched you stop, stand awhile, look at families pushing strollers, friends playing Frisbee. I imagined you wondering why this life wasn’t for you. I remembered days we talked together, laughed at jittery spaniels, sat by a rocky river, built cabins in our dreams. Staring at you, I tried to savor the strength, the illusion of safety I felt when we walked arm in arm. What do we do with memories that wear familiar faces, images that flood over us, catch us unaware, memories that sleep in locked rooms, 116 the widows’ handbook light us up from the inside out, stir feelings numbed from years of trying to forget, ones that sit beside us in our cars, place smiles on our faces, then leave us sobbing at the wheel? I knew this wasn’t you, couldn’t be you, but I wanted it to be, wanted to get it right this time, to stroke your hair, meet you at the door, asking How was your day, dear? I hungered to ease your pain. I wanted this to be you until I heard the stranger mutter to himself, I want some peace. I want to end this hell. Grateful you’d been released from such agony, I said a prayer for the man I thought I knew. Seeing you tip your head forward, like a hundred times before, place your back against a tree, cup your hands to shelter a cigarette from unwanted breezes, I lingered awhile, then left. ...

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