My first ghost was the one whose death shattered my life nearly three years ago, only a few months after we moved from Massachusetts back to my home state of Wisconsin and bought what I promised would be our last home. It was my husband of nearly twenty-five years, Ray. My Wolfie.
Unlike Marley’s ghost, I doubt he wears heavy chains unless they are the shackles of regret. No. The regrets are on my side. For not encouraging him more when he was consumed with doubts. He was always better at support than I; he made sure I knew he loved me deeply and unwaveringly.
Ray’s ghost held me close before telling me it’s time to move on and reclaim my own life.
“I’m not ready yet,” I sobbed as I gazed fondly at our entwined Christmas stockings, hung where I could see them from my bed.
The tears falling across his translucent face had a slight glow to them. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. Everything happened so fast.”
“I know. But you are still alive, my fierce cat.” Between us, he was always the wolf and I was the great cat. “You need to live your life with all the strength I know is inside you.”
I tried to pull him against me, though there was no warmth in his ephemeral body, but he faded away. Leaving me with empty arms and the memory of his final, sad, smile.
My second ghost was that of my only sister, Jeanne, who died three months after Ray. She and I were close once, before I left home to pursue a career. As I flitted around the world, we lost much of our once-firm connection. We had planned to fix that by creating new experiences, new memories. Until her death removed the possibility forever.
Jeanne reminded me of long-ago Christmases, when we were young and searched for our presents but never found them. I reminded her of how angry she’d been when her son did the same, but with more success. She’d threatened not to give him his presents because he’d already found them. We laughed about the time we’d tried putting sparkly crowns on our dogs for New Year’s Eve; the crowns were lost within half an hour. Happy times.
The diminutive—only four-foot-tall—Christmas tree I decorated this year, the first since Ray’s death, was a physical reminder of all the joys of Christmases past. Wrapped in watercolor memories, I’m not sure when Jeanne left.
My ghost of Christmas Present came with the scent of pine trees, cinnamon, and hot chocolate with marshmallows, and eyes that calmed my fractured spirit. Her face bore the fine lines of a long life lived well.
As we glided past the brightly lit decorations in Chandler Park, our feet hovering a foot above the crisp, white snow, she reminded me of all the good things in my life. Friends found since I moved back to Wisconsin, the satisfaction I get from working with local organizations, the progress in my writing thanks to the many new connections I’ve made in the past few years.
When she left, I was sad that Ray hadn’t lived to see the beauty of our new home, but my soul was calmer than it had been in recent memory. Only a slight whiff of longing for what might have been obscured its golden glow.
The fourth, and final, ghost exploded into my room in a blaze of red-gold fire, which dimmed to reveal a semi-transparent jaguar nearly my own height, with eyes that looked like miniature suns. “Hop on my back,” she growled, “if you’re brave enough to see your possible futures.”
When I found my voice, I said, “I learned a long time ago that foretelling is dangerous. Too often, it shows bad results that you have no power to change.”
“Foolish woman. Nobody’s future is fixed. It only seems that way if you refuse to change your own behavior. Touch my back to ride me.”
While I was still adjusting my position on her back, the world around me turned black. When the light returned, we were in front of my house but the walls had all become windows. I saw a tall Christmas tree in my office and another between the sofa and the bar in the wood-paneled basement. The two upstairs rooms were still filled with moving boxes, as they are now. I was seated at my computer, alone, chatting with people I’d never met while I drank cognac from a water glass. Apparently, I’d never moved past putting up a Christmas tree and a wreath to celebrate the holiday.
“How do I change this future?” I whispered. “It’s not what I want.”
“Move out of your comfort zone. Make decisions that may expose you to emotional risk.”
“But what if I lose what I have left?”
“Trust me. Your memories of the good things in your past will be with you no matter what you do in the future. To move forward, you must be fierce in your choices. Grab opportunities one by one. Even the ones that are unsuccessful will leave you with something new.”
“Can you show me what will happen if I learn to be fierce.”
She shook her head. “No. Each decision creates a new stepping stone in your path. There are too many possibilities to be sure of any result. The best I can do is show you fragments of your multiple futures.”
I nodded.
The world around us flickered. After each moment of dark, I saw another image. In one I had success as an author; in another I found new love but didn’t know what happened with my writing; in a third, I was surrounded by friends and family at what was clearly a festive Christmas dinner. A few visions were less happy, in that I was still alone.
When the jaguar-ghost left, I was exhausted.
I don’t know what the future will hold, but I’m determined to make my future different from my present.
As I reflect on the meaning of my ghosts, I wish all my friends—past, present, and future—all the love and joy I have known in the past and a brilliant year to come.
And remember to always Live Fiercely.
