I’m Living in a Ghost Town
And there are pieces of me lost in all of its streets.
I’m driving through the quiet streets of my small hometown, listening to a horror fiction podcast through my car stereo. There are thick clouds blanketing the sky like a fog, and though it’s not supposed to rain, I wonder if a storm might settle in during the evening hours.
As I’m driving, I pass my high school on the left-hand side — an old and spacious brown-bricked building sitting on the corner of a busy intersection. There are tall maple trees clustered around the property, their leaves obscuring the school’s high windows. I remember sitting in ninth-grade math staring out those old windows, distracted by the senior boys participating in gym class on the soccer field below. I can still see myself in my old catholic school uniform, ironed white blouse, plain black kilt, knee socks. I had such a sense of purpose back then. I knew my role, my world felt safe, and I did well academically. I had no idea what life had in store for me, but I was certain it would be good.
Of course, it would be good. It had been good… hadn’t it?
When I pay attention to the sprawling grass outside the building, I’m reminded of the countless times I walked to grab lunch across the street at Quarter’s Pizza, where my friends and I would each get two…
