The Ghost Inside Me

My mother died six months ago. Her ashes sit on a shelf in the corner of the living room awaiting the return of my daughter from her quarantine in the United States, where she currently resides. But where has my mother really gone?

That’s easy! She’s inside me. I feel her there every minute of every day.

I see her in the mirror in the slackening skin on my jawline and the left eyelid that is a little droopy. I feel her in my gait when I’m walking, as my right hip is slightly higher than my left. She speaks inside my brain whenever I pass instant judgement on someone or something, such as correcting the grammar in the local newspaper column or deciding in a split second that a passerby is wearing too much make-up. I hear her in my voice when I call the cat in with a silly high lilting semi-British accent. She passes through my left hand, as I notice a slight tremor after I’ve finished cutting a piece of wrapping paper. I feed her to my husband when I prepare minced beef mixed with corn and mashed potatoes in her old iron skillet. I smell her in the morning when my perspiration reminds me that I need a shower or when I open the box in the garage containing her jewelry box and leather handbag from the forties. Inside I find a single pearl earring with a bent tarnished clip-on hasp and press it to my lobe where it leaves a black mark. She is just saying hello as we revisit the sweetshop together in Essex where my grandmother lived. She will get some English toffee and I will choose the Callard and Bowser’s black current jellies. We will catch the train to Southend-on-Sea Pier and walk out to look at the open water. I am suddenly seven again. Whoever said time-travel is impossible really had no death experience.

She has never left because she is here inside me, every minute of every day. So, no great mystery folks about heaven or hell or the great beyond. Our loved ones are much closer than you think. Haven’t you noticed?