This morning I asked Mitzi a question about ghosts. She was sunning herself on the back of the sofa but I knew she was listening.
“I’m working on a short story involving a ghost you see, and I’m having trouble deciding where and when the ghost should appear. As near as I can figure it, ghosts appear in 4 different places: where they were killed, where they lived, where their loved ones are, and wherever their ‘unfinished business’ is. It will affect the story’s outcome–which I admit I haven’t written yet–depending on where the ghost appears. What do you think?”
Mitzi flicked an ear in my direction and I saw her tail tip thump the sofa once, declaratively. “Ghosts appear to me whenever I want them to. All I have to do is close my eyes and think of someone and they appear to me.”
“Uh, that’s not a ghost, that’s called a memory. A completely different thing.”
“Really? Are you so sure? What is a ghost then?”
“I have to admit I don’t know, but I know what one isn’t,” I said, suddenly feeling defensive at the unexpected direction our conversation had taken. “And what you describe is just a memory, not an apparition, not a spiritual entity communicating from the Great Beyond.”
When I looked over I saw she was staring right at me, or something over my right shoulder. You can never be quite sure with cats. “Close your eyes right now. Picture someone who’s passed over. Imagine them standing right in the corner over there.”
“OK….”
“Can you see them? What they’re wearing, how their face looks?”
“Yes but–“
“No buts! Quickly, tell me how a ghost would be any different from what you’re imagining right now?”
“Ummm, a ghost would actually be there.”
“Would it?”
“Well, I wouldn’t need to close my eyes to see it, It would be real!”
“Are you saying ghosts are real, that we imagine them with our eyes open?”
“Are you saying ghosts and memories are the same things?”
“To me. “
“Are you saying ghosts and memories are the same things?”
“To me. “
“To you?”
“To me.”
An uncomfortable silence fell between us. Well uncomfortable for me, I think Mitzi was enjoying the sound of gears turning in my head. “Ah! But what about someone who’s not dead yet? I can remember someone who’s not dead and therefore not a ghost.”
“Really? And that is different how?”
“Because they’re not really there.”
“Like a ghost. Not really there, because they are somewhere else?”
Here I struggled to clarify terms and instead of answering, I asked: “So you’re saying a memory is the ghost of someone who’s somewhere else and a ghost is the memory of someone who’s not here anymore?”
“Oh you almost have it, but think about what you just said. If someone is not here anymore, aren’t they somewhere else?”
“You really ARE saying a ghost and a memory are the same things, aren’t you?”
“To me.”
“Yes, to you.”
Mitzi half-jumped, half-rolled off the sofa and nosed her way thru the cat door. I heard her comment to herself as the last of her tail slipped thru: “And he wonders why cats and humans never talk to each other!”