Hybrid Prose Poem | Personal Essay | Creative Nonfiction
When Pressed Through Hollows
Their eternally whispering voices have yet to clue me in
Every October, my mind becomes a haunted house — though it haunts the countless, dauntless, semantic voices in my head to call it something so imprecise — so reductive — as a haunting.
Are hauntings by loved ones who have crossed over — their “visits”, seemingly, with no perceivable malicious intent — are they really hauntings, or are they merely unsolicited accompanyings? Who can say among us, the living?
And are the visiting spirits real, or are they just part of a hyperactive imagination’s efforts to help cope with unimaginable grief we’ve found every imaginable way of compartmentalizing instead of processing?
Perhaps I’m not meant to learn the truth of these matters until after my final breath officially ushers whatever essence of me that departs this crude, expiring meat across the veil into their eternal Hallows’ Eve house party — but again, who can say among us who still draw breath?
Their eternally whispering voices have yet to clue me in.
it’s only the wind
it howls when pressed through hollows
we hear it with dread
colored by our own shadows
in…
