Published in The Words Faire
Ghosts walk this land with me. My ghosts are not spectres nor apparitions, but tender confluences of memories and gratitude for loved ones I have lost. Through Stillpoint’s tranquil meadows and untamed forest, they accompany me, their absence a gentle yet profound presence that has taken on their shape, and I feel them with me.
My ghosts are intertwined with the birdsong of this land, with the soft ripple that stirs inside me when I hear it. They are present in the supple motion of tall grasses swaying with the breeze, and in the majestic spruce and fir, the sturdy ponderosa, all reminding me of the strength and courage I witnessed when they encountered challenges in their lives. All I’ve learned from them continues to live in me. My sister Susan most of all, and especially at Stillpoint.
With an overnight stay in the fishing village of Fiumicino near the Rome airport, we slept unaware of what was happening at home in Colorado. 
When I was eight years old, many decades ago now, I learned there were different kinds of dirty. We were new to the mountains, my family and I, renting a cabin at a small, rustic resort where the ghost town of Bakerville usedto be, near Loveland Pass. Down the creek a ways, lived an old man we called Pops. At least we thought of him as old, with his pudgy frame, poorly shaved face, saggy skin, and well-worn clothes. Pops would come around to the picnic area and play his harmonica for my brother, sister, and me. He would also perform magic tricks and give us silly names. Stump-a-Doodle-and-Bunch was one. He made us laugh as he entertained and teased us. We liked and trusted him because he seemed to care about us.