The Devil is afraid of kittens. This revelation surprised him too. It was something in their eyes, something devious. Perhaps it was was because he knew what the kittens had seen. They know exactly what he did that day, that day in the snow. They had something on him, something dark and incriminating. First, a snow angel. He knew this was wrong on many levels, but he couldn't help it. He nearly giggled, but it was more of a nervous growl. And then, nearly a minute of catching snowflakes on his tongue. He didn't mean to stand there that long, but the falling snow was mesmerizing; it almost made him forget about his existential crisis. But he was ripped back into reality as he saw them watching. Oh yes, the kittens were watching from inside of the frosted windows. They witnessed his moment of weakness, his moment of innocence. They knew exactly what they had to do. But they needed to be patient and wait for the right moment. The Devil knew he was on barrowed time, but when and how he'd meet his demise, he didn't know. But the kittens knew, and he was terrified.

I found him naked on the hilltop, his hilltop, the same one as always. He stood silhouetted in the specked turbulence of a blueish-orange sunset, his clouded eyes fixed with wonder upon God’s rotating canvas. Pearly, unkempt, and uncut hair blew on the evening’s breeze like cottony threads about his clouded eyes, framing them against translucent skin road-mapped with criss-crossed veins and wrinkles. Like a scene from the “Opera Glorious” his arms raised their rippled skin to the heavens, his bony, branchlike fingers stretched wide to touch... what?

I was a young man, my values fixed, my world “real”. I believed back then that I was embarrassed for him, but I was not. He was the lucky one, he was beyond indignity. It was I who was embarrassed. Shame flushed my face. I hurried up the hill, my steps unsteady in the tall grass. I wondered as I climbed if this sunset was foreshadowing my future, if his ending was to be my lot and legacy? Were these the golden years I had to look forward to? There could only be sadness in losing a trained and exercised mind, and if one as sharp as his could falter, why not mine?

As I neared I called to him. “Dad?”

He did not answer. Instead he began to dance, his arms postured as to hold a love long lost. He raised his voice in an uncharacteristic falsetto, singing a forgotten song that tickled the deepest depths of my memory. Young I was, but not harsh. There was no one around, no one to witness his folly, so I halted my intrusion. What was the harm, to give him a moment of tranquility when so few were left to him?

He danced the early stars into a high, cobalt sky. Pink and gold clouds stretched away like a path into the darkness of the coming night. His dancing feet found those tinted clouds, and those bare feet grew emboldened in their soft downs. His movements became swifter, his eyes shone brighter, his chiselled features turned boyish. I saw something of my father then that I never had before, something that only his mother, or a youthful lover, ever could have seen. His eyes looked into mine with a wide eyed innocence from out the dawn of a new and pristine reality.

I wished then that it was me dancing in his arms, that I might feel his joy myself, but in my heart I knew who it was his arms held. In my heart I knew who it was awaiting him at the path’s end, and knowing who it was made my heart sing in that same, old fashioned falsetto that he was singing in, harmonizing to his happy memories.

My shame and my fear left me to roll away like the tears from my eyes. I no longer worried what people would think of my father’s ills. Why worry about those digging holes when you can instead raise up to the sky? Suddenly, I wished that the world would see him dancing, that it could see him dancing naked on a hilltop, on his hilltop, as I did. I wished they could see, as he was showing me, that there is such a thing for us as Peace.

Suddenly I hoped that his would be my lot, and my legacy. What more was there for me to hope, but that I might follow along in my father’s path to everlasting joy.

Shame tossed aside, I stripped free of clothes under a silvery moon and stars, and we danced to a falsetto song.

1. I have never, ever kissed a frog.

2. I don’t own a washer or a dryer, so I’m currently sitting in a public laundry room waiting for my spin cycle to reach its end. There are three women sitting diagonally to my left, and one man on my right.

3. In second grade I woke up one hazy morning, trudged into the bathroom, and screamed when a frog jumped up at me from inside the tub. My parents told me they found it at the public pool and brought it home for me. I wasn’t sure I liked their gift. A few days later, I released it in my elementary school’s garden area. I bet a snake got it.

4. There are posters all over the laundry room advertising how you can “Pay with your phone!” I would rather pay with quarters if the machines let me. Whenever I find a coin on the street, I only take it if it’s heads up. If it’s tails, I flip it over and leave it for the next person.

5. I wish I had been the kind of kid who was willing to kiss a frog at least once.

I didn’t know that my grandfather passed away until after I checked my Facebook feed on that early November morning. We had just moved into a new house, and I was getting ready to unpack my room, thrilled for a fresh start before my senior year of high school. Grandpa Hefty was my best friend. We’d sneak to the kitchen during family parties to make root beer floats, and if we were especially sneaky, we’d escape the droning parties altogether and walk to the movie theater a few blocks away. Memories like these gripped me as I went to find my dad, tears overwhelming my being as I choked on the realization that I wouldn’t be able to see these memories the same way.

In his own grief, it was obvious how much my dad regretted not telling me sooner. He didn’t know how to tell me. Dad was still coming to terms with it himself.

Grandpa didn’t have time to rope a decent will together. My dad didn’t get the rolltop desk he wanted for years and years. My brother missed out on the infinite James Bond DVD collection. I lost the only thing I wanted, the only thing I felt as if would maintain a real connection between myself and my late best friend.

When I was seven, I determined to make my grandfather an incredible Christmas present, since I just recently found out that twenty-five cents wasn’t enough to buy him a new collectible car. I thought it was ridiculous, but, I knew I could make something much nicer. So I pulled out a paint set and set to work on a small jewelry box. I painted it yellow, purple, and pink - which to a seven year old, looks like Picasso himself was a patron to my art. Once that was finished, I found an older bottle cap I’d been saving (you know, the ones with a code for a free drink!) and put it in the box. What a present, indeed.

You would have thought I gifted my grandfather the key to the city, the way he boasted over his new “treasure chest,” as he called it. I was never prouder. Despite the horrific coloring of the box, grandpa told me that anything I made with my heart and hands was beautiful, and to never stop creating.

For a long time, I mourned over the fact that this jewelry box was nowhere to be found. I felt as if I lost my last connection to him. I never did find it again, and all of his things have either been given to family or donated. My grief wasn’t relieved until my grandmother invited me over for lunch one day, and she laughed about the box, exclaiming that she “wouldn’t be surprised if he took it to Heaven with him.”

And I’ve always loved that idea. So, I may not have that box, but every time I set a pen on paper, I recall his wish for me to create beautiful things for the rest of my life, and I set out on a mission to make him proud.

Mostly, she would miss the bumps in the night, the toppled picture frames, the bookcase knick-knacks nudged from their dusty footprints by the mischievous poltergeist lurking in the upper reaches of her rooms.

She would miss having another spectral shadow to soft-foot through midnight moonbeams with, another restless spirit to help her bear the ticking clock‘s smallest, but longest hours.

She would miss the curdling screams and yowls behind the tinkling bells and squeaks of a bored phantom at play.

She placed the scratch-post down alongside the curb, the soft rain already soaking it’s carpet wrapped wood. She would miss the aisle at the market with its toys and treats, and she would miss the small, gentle spirit droning its joy that she was returned home again safely.

She was happy for the rain to hide her tears from the unfeeling drivers of the passing cars, and from the large-eyed children sitting beside them. She stood a good while in it, recalling the things she would miss, counting them up. If she stood there long enough the cold rain might take her too from an ever lonelier world.

What to do when you've outlived your Ghost?