We Were All Ghosts




We Were All Ghosts

It had snowed in early Spring, and a warm snap caused a cloak of mist to settle among the trees. I walked in the heavy air, so dense it made my breath sound like that of a stranger. I was grieving, and the stillness was a salve. Moving shapes emerged and I found myself among a herd of deer; they slipped around me on invisible legs, horns soft as wings against the swirling ether. I held my breath. They paid me no mind. I wondered if we were ghosts.

 –Teresa Kiplinger


 


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