Sleeping with Ghosts

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today’s poem first appeared on the blog in 2014.

Several people among my own generation (and younger) have told me recently that they are very  scared of growing old alone and especially of dying alone; the latter, significantly more so since the coronavirus pandemic. I can understand why.  Those of us living on our own cannot help worrying about what will happen if we develop symptoms …

Me? Well, if I have no one to hold my hand should I die with coronavirus, at least I will have my favourite ghosts. Our kinder ghosts will always be with us, if we let them, and we need to let them, not only for our own comfort and inspiration, but also because they can see to it that none of us need either grow old – at least in spirit - or die alone; no, even if we live to a ripe old age and have outlived everyone who ever meant anything to us in our lives.

Kindness may sometimes seem in relatively short supply these days, but there is plenty of it about. Be sure, too, there is such a thing as the kindness of ghosts, and our kinder ghosts will never abandon us.

As a child, I was afraid of the dark, and subsequently of dying having heard it describes more than once as an eternal darkness. As a child, I was also afraid of ghosts. One evening, come my bedtime, I confided both fears with my mother, poised as she was turn off the lamp beside my bed.
She left the light on, but pointed out, "No dark, no dreams. No dreams, no happy times coming back to haunt us like ghosts coming out to play," She did, however leave my bedroom door ajar in case I felt unwell in the night. I listened to her descending the stairs, feeling safe, and turned off the lamp, eager to enjoy playing with ghosts if, well, just a little apprehensive. Needless to say, I have never feared darkness or ghosts since.

Oh, I have my share of bad memories and unkind ghosts, just like everyone else. Sleep, though, is as much my world as any ghost's, and I will always have the last word in which ghosts I choose to play with; to any that would muscle in and spoil things, I only have to call on my nocturnal playmates to help chase them away.

SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS

I sit in a comfy armchair,

flicking through pages of a novel,

characters kind, unkind,

and none (I imagine) will come

to see me;

I stumble on a creaking stair,

look down at the hallway below,

kind ghosts waving,

but none (I imagine) likely to come

and give me a goodnight hug

I sit on the edge of my bed

flicking through a photograph album,

kind ghosts comatose,

and no-one (I imagine) coming

to hug me;

head, comforted by pillows,

surrounded by friendly shadows,

waving at me...

but none (I imagine) likely to come

and tell me a bed-time story

I snuggle under the duvet

recalling the clean smell of fresh sheets,

a safety-net of blankets,

as I revisit the many kindnesses

lent by years of make-believe

with an invisible cloak, magic enough 

in its seams to free me

from troubled times, if never 

(quite) enough to come through for me

 in a once-and-for-all fashion

Among the shadows, a figure

looms larger than the rest, elbows its way

forward, arms open wide

a familiar voice wiping away my fears

like a child’s tears;

I close my eyes, follow the Sandman

into a past-present-future 

where life is a copycat Heaven,

so many cups of loving-kindness on offer

that no-one need ask or beg

As for a cruel darkness, yes, I’d be afraid

but for Peace having the last word

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011, rev. 2020

[Note: This poem has been significantly revised since it first appeared on the blog some years ago.] RNT