Ghost of Grief

“We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future.” 

Infused in society is the fear and disapprobation of death. Entire industries are built on erasing the omens of death from our bodies. We inject plastic into our flesh, scrub wrinkles away, and burn our roots to look alive—all to look in the mirror and see the ghost of our youth. 

When did we start wearing noise-canceling headphones for grief? It’s as if we’ve blocked out the noise of the wind ruffling autumn leaves, bees pollinating, and horses grazing: grief, too, is everywhere

Is ignoring grief concealing it or beating it? I would argue it is neither. Silencing grief is being deaf. Deaf and blind to the fabric of life. And is life a beaker on a scale? Is the purpose to get to the highest number of grams on the scale before time runs out? “Living life to the fullest”—is that acceptance or defiance?

“We are the dead,” said Winston, from George Orwell’s book 1984. He condemned himself to live as the dead the moment he began his covert rebellion. So whilst he measured his life by the value he brought, presently or posthumously, his life was dead weight. Julia, on the other hand, measured her life by time and feeling. She rejected death; she grieved her impending expiration date. One became a ghost and the other was haunted by one. 

My grandmother was shackled to her bed, her relationships circumscribed to those who could afford to visit her in her hospital. In the moments when she had to pee into a bag, in the moments when she couldn’t taste her food, in those moments, I bet she grieved her life more than her incumbent death. 

My great-great aunt was sequestered in a room with peeling wallpaper and none of the possessions she loved so deeply. When she had to ring a bell to go to the bathroom, when her lunch companions dozed off mid-conversation, in those moments, I bet she grieved her life more than her incumbent death. 

Their ghosts don’t appear in dark hallways or in spider web-covered attics. Their ghosts don’t haunt my dreams or my nightmares. Their ghosts are artists. My grandma’s ghost painted my father’s pillow with dark gray polka dots and my great-great-aunt painted my mother’s cheek blue. Their ghosts are teachers. They pass down history and teach us love, life, and sorrow. Their ghosts are photographers. They print and display memories forever in our minds. 

Winston is pessimistic. He skipped over organic foods and yoga and went straight to choosing coffins. Julia is defiant. She only sees stars and not what makes them shine. Julia is in for a surprise. 

Demonizing liposuction and retinoids is fruitless. Just because you don’t look like Jane Fonda and Angela Bassett does not mean peptide cream will scare their ghosts away and not yours. But life is not over when you accept death, so maybe stop smoking.

Grief comes in many ghosts; these ghosts are our companions. I don’t really know my ghost companions well. For me, they appear in movies and during Halloween trick-or-treating excursions more than in the back of my mind. But they remain omnipresent, and I know they are kind if I am kind to them. For me, I don’t need answers. I don’t want a target number on a scale, the perfect skincare routine, the meaning of life, or the illustration of life after death. Pennywise the clown scares me more than meeting a ghost of grief. I like Christmas more than Halloween anyway.