“I don’t talk to ghosts and neither should you.”
The funny thing about talking to ghosts is that it only works if you are talking about people and things that are truly…dead.
Some things go through seasons where they lie fallow and dormant but given time life finds its way back and small tendrils of green poke up through the earth and that which was black soon is covered again in flowers.
It made him think of Neruda.
“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” ― Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets
He wondered what Neruda would have said and if maybe he had stumbled onto common ground. He wondered if Neruda would put his hand on his shoulder and give him a knowing smile and nod his head.
Or would he say that the tendrils of green represented a new cycle and nee beginnings always meant to find new people.
But a man who wrote as Neruda did seemed to be the kind who would understand that love runs a different sort of race and is its own master.
You can’t tell it when to start or when to end. Maybe some loves did die but it was also true that some didn’t and the only question was what sort of companion love chose for itself.
But Neruda had been gone for more than 40 years so there would be no face-to-face discussion about his feelings. At best there might be a conversation based upon reading and supposition, but nothing more than that.
Just speculation based upon words that were written down long ago and the biased perspective of the life that someone else lived about whether dead is not always…dead.