Catherine M. Altimari
Powder Spring, Georgia, USA

Ghosts in the Graveyard

So many summer nights, we met by the old metal swing set in Johnny’s backyard, ready to play Ghost in the Graveyard. We chose the ghost, who counted “one Mississippi, two Mississippi” — all the way to fifty — while the rest of us scurried into the shadows, barely making it to hiding places before the shout, “Ready or not, here I come!” shook the dusk. Our hearts raced as we tried to stifle frenzied breaths when the ghost drew near. They raced even more when a discovered hider yelled, “Ghost in the Graveyard,” and twilight became a canvas of silhouettes coming from all directions — with arms flapping and feet clattering — as all of us frantically made our way toward the swing set, hoping not to be the last one to touch metal, and become the next lone ghost.

We never met at Johnny’s mother’s grave, or at Carol Anne’s dad’s, when the neighborhood began to turn gray. Heck, we didn’t even know to say goodbye to each other when we left — one by one, by one …

lighting a vigil light
in a dark church
winter solstice