When I was very young, I remember being in the car a lot at night on the highway—my father driving and me resting my head against the window, watching the moonlit trees whip by, mesmerized by the way the guardrail seemed to undulate as we sped on through the dark.
On the darkest stretches of these curving two-lane highways, I could see what seemed to be misty shapes, flowing alongside our car. Ghosts that had long lost the way back to loved ones, drawn to the sinuous paths the highways carved through the silver and black woods, pulled along by kinetic energy, yearning for the warmth of the living to give them purpose.
"Come," I would whisper through the glass. "Come with me. Follow, and I will show you love. Obey me, and you will find a home in my heart."
And I drew them to me, the lonely ghosts. By the dozens, by the hundreds, by the thousands, they heard my words and joined me on my journey.
For a lifetime, I've collected them, and when I lay my head down to rest, they comfort me and call me their own. My ghosts. My loves.
Because of them, I am never alone.
