Anyone's Ghost

by August Thompson

Once the women were gone, I was left with men and I was left with boys. Men and boys never made me feel comfortable. I wasn’t allowed to observe—I had to do. I had to fight, or I had to play shortstop, or I had to hold the flashlight or do push-ups or break glass. I had no interest in doing. I was almost completely defeated by simply being.

I wanted Jake as much as I wanted to be Jake as much as I wanted to be his friend as much as I wanted to be his brother.

I remember thinking that this was the only year in my life I could point to as purely happy. I remember not caring if there was another snow globe of a year like that ever again. I remember feeling so lucky I got even one.

I am still so ashamed of all of these reactions, though every person, every article, assures me they are normal. Maybe that is the shameful part: the normalcy. That people are so poorly designed that we cannot interact with the one thing that comes for us all with any grace or understanding. How can we be violated as death happens again and again to every single thing we love?